


Where the Lanterns Burn

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe, Elemental Magic, Forbidden Love, M/M, Prostitution, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 81,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26584639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: Patroclus is a child when he discovers his ability to control water. In a world where his kind are treated as slaves, he is taken away and sold for the public's entertainment. There he meets the famed performer Achilles, and together they struggle to survive the demands of the stage.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 113
Kudos: 174





	1. Prologue

The floods had come in that morning. He watched how the fields overflowed, the farmers wading through in their knee-high boots to salvage what they could. 

It was the rain season. The lucky season, his mother called it. 

He wasn’t sure if she was right about that, hearing the way their neighbors yelled to each other, the pails they frantically pushed under the roof to catch at dripping water. They were cold and wet every night, but it was not a worry. He had just turned six, his mind too open and free to be crowded with these matters. 

His mother would cover him in the blankets she had woven, one layer after another, and it didn’t matter that their firewood was too damp to light up. 

“Look what I have,” she would say, holding out two fists. He would point at one, and she opened her palm, revealing the candy in the crinkly red wrapper. He liked the sound it made. _Crinkle crinkle crinkle_. 

They would giggle and eat their candy, snuggling under the covers until it was nice and toasty.

Outside, the thunder clapped. 

“Listen,” his mother said. “How determined he is to be heard.” 

The things she said sometimes, little observations that made him look twice. As though the world had awakened around them, the wind and the soil and the water. All he had to do was listen.  
\---

When the rain stopped they went out to the river, his mother balancing the pile of washing on her head. He held on to her dress, tagging along as he always did.  
“Keep close to me, my child,” she reminded him. 

But once her back was turned, her attention captured by the chores she had to complete, he would look for them. 

Shiny black stones, that lined the river’s edge. He would pick one up, rubbing at it with his shirt, until he could see the gleam on its surface. They grew larger and prettier the further he went into the water, until he was knee deep. 

A flash of silver, and he caught sight of a fish, wriggling hastily as it was trapped between two stones. Deeper in he waded, reaching out to move the stones aside. He was watching it swim away, wondering at how fast it could go, when the riverbed beneath him gave way, his body taken by the current.  
\---

Water was rushing into his nose, into his head, making it sting. He floundered, trying to come up to the surface, but the river was intent on keeping him.  
“Listen,” his mother would have said. He listened. 

How slow his movements were, limbs lagging as they were held still by the current. He heard the rocks underneath his feet, tumbling, the weeds brushing against his toes. And a few feet away, the silver fish, its scales catching the light from above. 

He laughed, bubbles coming out of his mouth. How pretty it was, the way it danced in the water. It swam in circles around his head, and he watched, transfixed. He wished he could tell his mother all about it, he thought. 

He didn’t notice what had happened until her screams reached his ears. 

He looked at her, surprised. She was drenched from head to toe, her hair clinging to her face; calling his name, the edge of panic to her voice. 

He grinned at her and pointed to the fish. Look! he wanted to say. She stared. 

Her eyes were wide in horror, fingers coming up to cover her mouth. He saw, and felt embarrassed. 

At once, the fish stopped swimming, landing with a thud on the riverbed where the water had crawled away from him, leaving a circle of dry land in the middle of the river. 

A few minutes passed, and his mother stepped forward, cautiously, as though the water would snap at her any second. She grabbed him and pulled him against her chest. Her hands came up around his face.  
“ _Never do that again_. Do you understand? _Never_.” 

Perhaps he was too little to understand the meaning of fear. But that day, it was the first he learned of it.  
\---

Secrets could not be kept in a village as small as theirs. _Strange child_ , they said. There had always been whispers, whenever his mother brought him out of the house. But they only grew worse, until she stopped taking him with her wherever she went. 

“Stay here,” she said, trying to soothe his anxiousness. She didn’t want to leave him alone. But rumors could become poisonous, when left to fester and grow. She made him lock the door and keep the windows shut. 

Perhaps it would have worked, if they had lived in a different world. Perhaps it would have worked, if there hadn’t already been stares thrown his way from every direction.  
\---

They took him away, in the middle of the night. Rough hands, wrenching him away from his mother’s arms, as they both slept to the sounds of the rain. He opened his mouth and let out a scream, but it didn’t come out, his mother reaching for him, chasing him all the way to the wagon where they stuffed him in. 

The sound of her voice faded away beneath the rain. He could scarcely make out the words any more, syllables echoing in the distance, in time. Over the years, they became lost to him, until he no longer remembered the name that had fallen from her lips. He never saw her again. 

The lucky season, she had said. What kind of luck, he soon came to know.


	2. Chapter 2

His head bumped against the sacks, the wagon lurching over the uneven road beneath. He could hear the horses’ hooves pounding against paved streets. They had left the countryside, the buildings overhead sleek and grey, passing by in a haze if he stuck his head out the top. 

One of the men would notice sometimes, and snap a long cane against the side of the wagon, if he made any movement to climb out. His clothes were damp, and the sacks were uncomfortable, filled with something hard. He had never been to the city before. He didn’t know anyone in the village who had. 

They had been traveling for the whole day, and it was growing dark. Up ahead, he could make out distant lights, lining the narrow streets. The neighborhoods they passed by were filled with closely-packed houses, each nearly identical to the next. He could smell smoke, the faint aromas of cooking, and it made his stomach growl. He hadn’t had anything to eat at all. 

“This one?” one of the men grunted, slowing the horses down as they rounded the corner. The houses here were low and gated, gabled roofs lit up by yellow lanterns. They stopped the wagon and the man dismounted, clutching a piece of paper in his hand. He walked over to one of the doors and rang the bell, the sound clanging loud through the street. 

There was nothing to do but wait in the wagon, as the door was opened and low voices could be heard. He clenched his hands, folding the fingers together. 

Then he was grabbed and pulled out of the cart, the man’s hard fingers digging grooves into his ribs. 

An old man with a walking stick was staring down at him, black eyes shining in the light. He examined the child for a while, still saying nothing. Then he looked at the men, shaking his head. “Too scrawny. What am I supposed to do with this?” 

“He is one of them,” the man from the wagon protested. He pushed the child forward, until he stumbled into the doorway. The old man used his stick to stop him from falling down.  
“Ask him to do it,” the man insisted. 

The old man shook his head. “I cannot. Only time will tell of his abilities.” 

He gave the child a second look, tapping his stick a little as though in consideration.  
“You will lower the price, and I will take him off your hands.” 

Loud objections were made, but at a hard look, the men from the wagon gave in. 

He barely heard the clink of metal as coin was exchanged, before the old man took him by the collar and pulled him inside. 

“Wipe your feet!” he barked. “Can’t have you tracking dirt onto my floors.” 

He obeyed, glancing around him. He had never seen such a house before. They were in a hallway, with walls of dark wood, tapestries hanging over the panels, colorful designs. He went over to one of them.

“How old are you?” the old man demanded. 

He hesitated. He had never gone to school, but his mother had taught him how to count. He held up six fingers. 

The old man stared at him silently. “Speak up, boy.” 

He kept the six fingers up, wondering if the old man couldn’t see them. 

A second, and the stick was up, tapping him under the chin. “Speak _up_.”

He shook his head. 

_Strange child_ , they had said. 

The old man seemed to make a decision, watching him with his thick eyebrows drawn together. “Hmm. _Hmm_.” 

He waited nervously. Was the old man going to be angry? People were always angry when they found out what was wrong with him. He scanned the old man’s face for the beginning of a sneer, the eyes going flat with discomfort. None came. 

“People don’t understand,” his mother had said, stroking his hair when they came home from a hard day in the town. She had paused, then reached out and tickled his belly until he laughed. “See? You are not any different than the rest of them.” 

It made him want her so badly, thinking of it. He started to tear up, wondering if she could find him. It had all been so fast. He wished he’d paid better attention of the route. But it had all been so unfamiliar. Perhaps this old man would let him see her, if he was good and did what he said.

“Come,” the old man said. He led him over to a flight of stairs. 

The desperation took over, then, as he glanced back at the door, now shut and bolted. He tugged at the old man’s sleeve. 

“This is your life now, boy. Best you forget and accept it.” He hadn’t expected the gentleness in the old man’s tone, from that stern face. 

Up the stairs he went.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His hands shook as he carried the bucket of water to the courtyard, trying not to let it spill. These were his mornings; he was up before the sun rose, going out to the cistern at the back of the house where they kept their water. He would scrub all of the floors by the time the sun was high - if he didn’t get it done, Phoinix would beat him with his walking stick. 

His hands were rubbed raw from the scrubbing brush. There were other people in the house, but they kept out of sight, and everyone seemed to have their own job to do. He couldn’t have talked to them even if he wanted, anyway. And no one seemed to want to talk to him. 

He was allowed meals twice a day. When he was done with his work, Phoinix would tell him to go to the kitchen, where he could eat before starting the next round of chores. 

“Do you know your letters?” the old man had asked him. 

After a blank stare, Phoinix had sighed. “I suppose it’s for the best. Come.” 

He was taken into a room he hadn’t seen before, where great sheets of fabric were laid out on wooden stands. Some of them had designs etched in with wax - others were plain. Phoinix picked up a paintbrush and handed it to him. 

“You know what to do with this?” 

He took the brush and made a waving motion with it. The old man nodded in approval. 

In the evenings, they sat together and the old man taught him to paint the silk. He liked it, mixing the colors and filling in the designs. Before long, he was allowed to paint them himself. 

One day, he made a mistake and spilled paint over the finished work, ruining the design. Phoinix came in and caned his hands until there were red stripes all over them. He never made a mistake after that.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He had been there for nearly a month when he saw the Sparrows for the first time. 

“Open the gate!” Phoinix bellowed. “Open it!” 

He went and heaved it open, but it was no use. Something - or rather, someone, tumbled through the air and into the roof, sending the tiles rattling all over. 

“Good grief, boy!” Phoinix yelled. “Someone go up there and get him!” 

He gaped up at the figure on the roof, who was lying still. Then his mouth opened even wider, hand clutching the edge of the gate, when a group of older boys swooped in over the entrance, up to the roof, where they retrieved the first boy and brought him down to the ground. 

They had … they had been _flying_. 

He rubbed his eyes, thinking he was seeing things. Just like the bird-men his mother had told him stories about. He walked closer to get a better look. The boys were tall and lean, and they wore clothing like he had never seen before. He recognized the designs. The same silk he and Phoinix had worked on, made into makeshift wings tied to the arms. They even _looked_ like the bird-men from the old stories. 

The boy who had fallen into the roof was moving now, clutching at his ankle that he had sprained. His silk wings were torn, and Phoinix had already started to berate him for it. 

“You have cost us a small fortune, Antilochus! To bed, at once! I will deal with you later.” 

Antilochus scurried off, hopping on his good leg. The rest of the boys apparently did not live at the house and wandered off. They did not take flight again, making him wonder if perhaps he _had_ imagined it.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He wished his room had a window. He wished it so badly. If only he could look outside and get a glimpse of the town. Then perhaps it would make his path home seem less far away. 

A tapping on the door. 

He closed his eyes and covered his head, hoping it was not Phoinix, finding some wrong he had done. 

More tapping. 

“Hello?” someone whispered.

The door cracked open, and a face not much older than his own appeared. It was the boy from the roof. Antilochus, he remembered. 

“Were you crying in there?” 

He kept his head covered, but peeked one eye out. 

“I can hear you, you know. It’s hard to sleep with all that crying.” 

He covered his mouth. Being heard by someone had never been a problem he’d encountered. 

Antilochus knelt outside the door and waited for his answer, then sighed when none came. He slipped inside and closed the door. 

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” 

He nodded. 

“What’s your name?” 

Silence. He opened his mouth, trying out the words, but nothing came out but air. 

“It’s alright, the troupe master will give you one. When you’re old enough to go for training.” 

Training? He stared back at Antilochus, who chuckled when he saw his confusion. 

“So you can learn to use your art!” Antilochus pointed at his ankle. “Did you see me crash into the roof?” 

He nodded. 

“That was my best one _yet_!” 

Slowly, he sat up. He pointed at Antilochus’ arms. 

“Oh, my wings? They help me catch the wind. All of us wear them! You must come and see our show. They say the Sparrows are going to be famous one day.”  
Antilochus started to talk very fast when he was excited.  
“You _will_ come see our show sometime, won’t you?” 

He hesitated. He didn’t know what a show _was_. 

Antilochus looked him up and down. “What _is_ your art? Are you going to join a flight group, too? I hope it’s not the Magpies. We’re enemies with them!”

His head was spinning. He had no idea what Antilochus was talking about. Yet, he found himself sitting back and listening. No one had ever wanted to talk to him for this long before. Antilochus didn’t seem to mind at all that he never replied.  
\------------------------------------------

A few months passed before he found out what the Sparrows were. He didn’t think he would ever forget the experience. Phoinix had brought him along so he could help carry meals for the boys during their rehearsal. They went past their neighborhood, through back alleys, until they reached a pair of red gates, looming high above them. 

It was a city within a city. 

“Polis Thugater,” Phoinix explained. “The Daughter City. Once you gain access, there is no going back.” 

He watched wide-eyed as Phoinix handed a red token to the gatekeeper. 

“That is for you,” the old man added. “When the troupe master gives you a name, you will not need a token to enter the city.” 

For a place that was kept hidden within the main city, the streets were wider, the buildings taller. It was a center of activity - people in every direction, chattering as they walked, street vendors selling their fare. He saw several children running around with sticks of candied fruit, laughing as they ate. 

And everywhere they turned, there were banners and advertisements. He didn’t know what they said, but some had pictures of people he did not recognize. There was one that caught his eye - a boy with his arm outstretched, a ring of fire protruding from his fingertips. He wondered what it meant. 

They hiked up to a platform in the middle of a large open space, where a small crowd had gathered. There were several groups dressed similarly to the boys he had seen with Antilochus, all sleek-cut costumes with matching patterns. 

“They have a big show tomorrow,” the old caretaker muttered. 

Everyone was looking up, so he followed their gaze. 

“They’ll be coming in from outside the city.” 

He watched, scanning the sky in bewilderment. Why did everyone seem so anxious? 

And then the first of them emerged into view, distant figures flying in formation. The crowd started to cheer when they saw them - a perfect line in the sky, swooping from one side to the other. 

He looked at them in awe. Each flyer was synchronized exactly to the other, as they flew on and made patterns with their bodies. It went on that way for a while, like a flock of birds migrating for the winter. It was hypnotizing, the way they moved - so smoothly, so captivating, through the air. 

And then one of them stopped in midair and fell - he gasped out loud - only to be caught by his teammates, who swung him through the air and caught him again. A feat of acrobatics, with nothing to support them but each other. 

The crowd around him was going wild. As they continued to watch, it became clear to him how it worked. Each team had exactly five members. There were so many of them - the Bluejays, the Ravens, the Cranes … and of course, Antilochus’ Sparrows, who were one of the youngest. Each team performed their own routine to the audience. There were some who were clearly more popular than the others, and some who were definitely less experienced. 

He understood what Antilochus had meant by _art_. Somehow, the flyers were able to control the winds around them, using it to support their movement and propel them through the air, in an impression of flying. Or perhaps it _was_ real flying, he didn’t know. Either way, it was a marvel. The platform was filled with people by the time he and Phoinix left, and there were many more below on the ground, angling to get a look. And it was only a rehearsal. 

When they reached the house, he waited for Antilochus, eager to let him know that he understood.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Did you see, did you see?!” Antilochus cried, stumbling into the room and immediately shedding his flying clothes. They piled onto the ground, a heap of shiny material. 

He nodded. He had seen. And he was going to show Antilochus. 

“Our show tomorrow is going to be a big hit! When the Eagles retire, we’re going to take their place. Everyone says so!” Antilochus chattered on, not even bothered by his hurt ankle, where a dark bruise had started to form.

He took Antilochus’ hand and led him out of the house, to the cistern where he collected water for cleaning. 

“What are you doing?” Antilochus asked, looking puzzled. 

He tugged on Antilochus’ arm. He had to show him. 

The silver fish, its scales catching the light. If he thought of it long enough, he started seeing it, darting around in the water. 

_Listen. Listen_. 

He heard its tail flicking around as it swam in circles around him. He heard the bubbles escaping his lips as he laughed into the water. And there it was, its dance beginning, as he stepped into the cistern and started to chase it. 

Antilochus had stopped chattering. He saw the other boy from the corner of his eye. He was showing him, he thought. They were alike. The world had awakened around them, and they knew to listen to its call. 

“ _Stop_!” Antilochus hissed. He grabbed his arm, shaking it hard. “ _Stop, stop_!” 

He turned around, confused, feeling his eyes smarting at the other boy’s horrified tone. Didn’t Antilochus get it? He was just showing him. 

“Please, little friend, stop _now_!” 

He couldn’t stop. The fish was lunging out of his reach, and he had been too distracted to catch it. He opened his mouth but more bubbles came out. 

“ _What is the meaning of this_?” 

They hadn’t heard Phoinix come up behind them, even though his walking stick usually made a lot of noise. 

Antilochus let out a yelp. “Little friend,” he pressed, voice turning desperate. 

A second more of helpless struggling, and Phoinix’s hands were on him, shaking him until the bubbles stopped and the fish had faded out of sight. He was drenched to the bone, his body nearly underwater in the cistern. Phoinix dragged him out, laid him on the ground and thumped his back until he coughed out more water. His stomach felt so full, like he had been drinking an ocean. 

“Whose idea was this?” the old man growled. 

Antilochus shook his head. “I didn’t know he was going to do this. I swear!” 

Phoinix sent Antilochus away. 

It had started to grow dark, his wet clothes sticking to his skin, making him shiver. 

The old man gave him a once-over, gaze even sterner than it usually was. 

“I think it is time,” he said, voice low. 

“It is time you learn about what we really are.”


	3. Chapter 3

Blue, green, and silver. The colors he liked the most, the ones he knew to work with. He watched as the paint glided from his brush, wherever he chose to place it. It was how he brought the silver fish to life, how he made it catch the light. 

It was the only way he could, he knew now. It was like a dream he couldn’t catch. _One day_ , Phoinix had told him. When he was old enough to train. But they were forbidden from practicing their art outside the arena. 

“You will know what I mean,” the old man explained. 

The arena was a place of wonder and spectacle. It was where people like them were allowed to thrive, to show the world the skills they had mastered. 

“Not everyone has the talent,” Phoinix added. 

Nobody knew where they had come from, where they had received their abilities. According to the old legends, they had once been beings of great power, able to master the elements they were born for. 

Fire, water, and wind. 

But either the legends were wrong, or it had faded throughout the generations. Even someone who was born with talent would eventually lose it, if they did not put it to good use. 

“It is why even the most celebrated performers eventually leave the stage.” The lines on Phoinix’s face had looked even more pronounced than usual.  
“So my advice to you, boy - there is no use dreaming of becoming a great performer. There are thousands of us, in Polis Mater. Only the very best ever make it to the stage. The rest of us - we work, to keep the art alive. We work, to preserve the audience’s satisfaction. And that is as honorable a job as any.” 

There was something Phoinix was not telling him, he knew. The fear on Antilochus’ face, when he’d shown him what he could do. The way Antilochus had begged him to stop. Ever since he had arrived here, it had been the unraveling of some great secret - when he thought he had discovered it, there was yet another layer underneath. He didn’t think he was allowed the knowledge until Phoinix had determined him worthy.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was eight when he met the troupe master. 

The man who commanded the house, whom even Phoinix answered to. Antilochus had spoken of him once. Troupe masters were the ones who called the shots. Everyone who lived in the house carried the master’s name on their back. 

“Master Odysseus would like to see you,” Phoinix announced, one day, glancing over him with a disapproving sniff.  
“Make sure your hands are clean. And keep your eyes to the ground, when you approach him.”

He did as he was told. He was brought into the house’s main study, where he had never been allowed to enter before, not even to clean it. It was cool inside, brightly lit from the floor-length windows. It gave the room a warm atmosphere, even as the shadow fell over him and he could hear a man sucking on a pipe, smell the tobacco. The smell brought back memories, although the images were too hazy for him to make out. 

Callused fingers under his chin, bringing his face up. Two dark eyes looked back at him, shining wickedly. 

He remembered that he needed to keep his eyes on the ground, and quickly looked away. 

“This is the mute?” 

“He is the newest arrival, Master Odysseus,” Phoinix replied graciously. 

Master Odysseus turned his face this way and that, thumb pressing into his chin, not roughly.  
“Look at me, boy.” 

Reluctantly, he lifted his eyes. 

“Water,” the troupe master murmured. 

“Too much of it, I dare say,” Phoinix interjected. 

The troupe master let out a laugh. “There is no such thing. Not in my house.” 

Phoinix made a disgruntled sound, but didn’t comment further. 

“So what do they call you?” He hadn’t let go of him, still looking into his eyes like he could see everything inside. 

It made him shiver. 

The troupe master tutted. “You should be careful, Phoinix. A boy like this, better keep him locked away until he is old enough.” 

Phoinix’s expression darkened at the words. 

“Interesting, isn’t it? No matter what you do to him, he won’t make a sound.”

“He can make sounds. It’s words he has trouble with.” 

The troupe master shrugged. “Either way, he cannot talk back. The patrons like that.” 

There was a long pause, and then the troupe master removed his hand.  
“Patroclus, don’t you think?”

“I am not the one to consult on these matters,” Phoinix replied. 

“I think it an apt name. Patroclus.” The troupe master gave him another piercing look.  
“Pity you won’t be able to say it. But perhaps you will find another way, to honor the one who gave it to you.”

 _Patroclus_. He tried it out on his tongue, moved the syllables around in his cheeks. At least he wasn’t _boy_ anymore.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the years passed, there was no denying his skill with the silk. Phoinix had started trusting him to draw the designs himself, and he spent day after day perfecting his craft. 

“You are going to bring in a good amount of money,” the old man had muttered one day.  
“Perhaps it will be enough to satisfy the master.” 

He fingered one of the silks Patroclus had completed, a flowing fabric of sunset colors, horizon against the skyline of Polis Mater, their Mother City.  
“Incredible.” 

He turned red; compliments were not something the old man gave freely. But in the years he had lived at the house, it was the only thing that made him forget. It made him forget about the walls around him. It made him forget about the roads he scarcely knew, all the chances he’d missed to run away. 

When he painted, he chased a world of dreams. The brush built its walls, the paint breathed life into the images. He knew all the colors, and how to make them reveal the world otherwise kept hidden in his secret heart.  
\---

He didn’t know what Phoinix had meant about making money, but it was clear the silks had to go somewhere. Antilochus had worn some of his earlier works, cut into wings for flight performances. But as the years passed, Phoinix had shaken his head. 

“Your work has gotten too good,” he said. He gathered the completed silks, and brought them elsewhere. 

Patroclus had no idea what became of the miniature worlds he had created, heart aching whenever another one was taken from his sight. 

Until one day.  
\---

“Master Odysseus needs more servants at his lodge in Polis Thugater,” Phoinix announced. 

Patroclus and a boy named Teucer had been chosen. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” Antilochus said that night, finding Patroclus in his room and crawling under the covers. 

Everybody knew Antilochus was precocious. For the ones who controlled the wind, young members were extremely coveted. It was all too common for experienced flyers to lose their abilities at the prime of their careers, which meant flight groups often recruited the youngest talents they could find. It also meant Antilochus never had to do any work around the house, too busy with rehearsals day and night. 

Patroclus gave a sheepish smile. He _did_ want to go. He only ever got to see the hidden city whenever they brought in meals for the flyers. How could Antilochus understand? He flew over Polis Thugater _every day_. 

But the other boy was also the only friend Patroclus had, and he hated seeing him upset. 

He nudged Antilochus, holding out two fists. 

It made the other boy brighten up immediately, when he opened his palms to reveal the red candy beneath. 

“I have no idea where you get these,” Antilochus said, taking one and unwrapping it. _Crinkle crinkle crinkle_. He popped it into his mouth. 

They laughed together, the blankets all around them like a fort. It both eased him and caused a weight to grow in his chest. 

How many years, now? Was she wondering why he hadn’t looked for her?  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lodges in Polis Thugater were higher and grander than any he had seen. Each roof and pillar was lined with red lanterns, and at night, it was a sight to behold. Like a festival city, he thought. It was always noisy. Even when the sun had set, there were voices outside, large groups of men coming back from the taverns, singing songs into the night. 

He listened to them, from his window in the cramped room he and Teucer shared. The lewd words often made them giggle, until the other servants thumped on their ceiling to shut them up. The walls were very thin.

Polis Thugater was so many things. It was beautiful, and charming, and it _smelled_. This was where the folks from outer cities came to watch the spectacles. There were too many people, too many bodies. Drunks vomiting in the alleyways, garbage heaped outside restaurants, the stench rising to the high heavens. 

It was nothing like the clean, orderly tranquility of their neighborhood in Polis Mater. But what a marvel it was, to two young boys who had never experienced the city for themselves. 

It was hard to work, with how busy the lodge was at all times of day. If they had chores where they could look out the window, it was often impossible to tear their eyes away. The performers traveled back and forth from their lodges to the arenas, and what a sight they were. 

“Oh, _mercy_ ,” Teucer had exclaimed one day, beckoning Patroclus to the window when they were in the middle of polishing the floors.  
“It’s Big Ajax!” He pointed to a muscular man walking in the street outside. 

Patroclus hadn’t heard of him, but after spending a few days in Polis Thugater, one eventually got to know the names of the most famous performers. The banners were everywhere, they were impossible to miss. 

“I wonder if Little Ajax will come down here too.” 

He glanced at Teucer in question. For someone who had never seen a performance himself, Teucer seemed to have memorized everyone of note in the city. 

“There’s a rumor that Master Odysseus tried to buy them from their troupe master,” Teucer whispered. 

Patroclus shrugged. He loved seeing the people outside, but he knew nothing of the latest gossip and scandals surrounding the community. 

At least no one beat them in Master Odysseus’ lodge. Everyone was always too preoccupied. He had grown so familiar with Phoinix’s walking stick and cane that he hardly felt it anymore.  
\--------------------------------------

“Patroclus!” someone was shaking him awake. He blinked, the sparse light from the window helping him make out Teucer’s shape. 

“Guess what?!” 

He sat up. How could Teucer not be exhausted? They had spent the whole day on the roof replacing the tiles. He didn’t think his fingers would ever lose the blisters. 

“One of the cook’s boys knows a way into our arena. We’ll get to see them do a midnight rehearsal!” 

He had already seen rehearsals. Plenty of Antilochus’. And while the routines were truly incredible to watch, he had sort of gotten used to them. Teucer didn’t know this, of course. 

“Quick, get ready! I promised that boy my dessert for this!” 

Why on earth would he do that? They only got dessert one day of the week. But the excitement in Teucer’s voice was hard to ignore, so he got up and put on his day clothes. They snuck out the window, climbing down the pipes into the back alley. The smell immediately hit them as soon as they were outside, but Teucer seemed not to notice, leading Patroclus by the hand through the streets. 

Most of the vendors had gone home, but a few were still packing up their carts. The noises increased when they got closer to the taverns, raucous laughter and yelling. But Teucer led him further, into the main street that led to the arenas and amphitheaters where performances were held. Most of the troupes had their own smaller arenas to practice in. Patroclus recognized the lane that led to the platform where he had watched the Sparrows rehearse. 

He had never been to the more conventional arenas, which could seat thousands, tickets being sold outside every day to hasty pedestrians. It soon became clear that even rehearsals could be sold out, for the poorer audiences who couldn’t afford to watch the main events. 

They reached a large building, and Teucer took him round the back and tapped on the door. He recognized the cook’s boy who let them in, leading them up to the rafters where they could watch the show from above. It was an open rehearsal, that night. The arena was half-filled, and even with all the empty seats, it was something. He felt giddy, seeing those tiny figures down below, the main stage in the middle oval, seats all around it. 

There was already a performance going on, the audience clapping half-heartedly as two entertainers made a shower of sparks fall from the ceiling. This wasn’t at all like the Sparrows’ flight sequences. He found himself paying closer attention. 

He could see why it wasn’t a full house. The performers often took breaks in the middle of their acts, consulting with their trainers when an attempt failed. It could become monotonous to watch, and the audience was proof of that. 

His eyelids were growing heavy again when Teucer grabbed his arm, the audience below beginning to cheer. 

“Oh, I was wondering if he was going to be here tonight! You never know, at the rehearsals!” Teucer gasped, a grin taking over his face. 

A lone performer had entered the stage. A well-known one, from the noise the audience was making. They quieted down as soon as he reached the middle, taking his position. 

Patroclus squinted down. There was something familiar about this performer, but he was too far up to see what it was. 

There seemed to be an air of tension about the place as the performer stretched out an arm, his body bending in a curve like a bow. 

A few seconds of heavy silence. 

Then a column of fire rose from the ground, spiraling so high it almost reached the ceiling. 

The crowd gasped, immediately getting up from their seats and cheering. 

“That’s his trademark!” Teucer exclaimed. 

He clung on to Patroclus’ arm so tightly it started to hurt. “We got to see it! We got to see it!” 

Patroclus had edged away from their seat on the rafters. This performer did not seem to care if someone got singed by his flames. Below them, the drums had started playing, and they watched as he matched his movements to the beat. He had never seen someone so graceful. He found himself clutching Teucer back, their arms around each other, as they waited with bated breath for the next round of flames. 

The performer knew his audience well. Every step, as he danced around the ring, every jump and loop and spin. The flames came out when they least expected it, making people jump back. Sometimes they came out in curls from his fingertips, sometimes they were walls of fire that he leaped over, dying down just in time before his body collided with them. Performers were not immune to the elements they manipulated. 

Fire was particularly dangerous, which made it the most popular. But Patroclus had never seen a fire dance like this, had never heard of it. The flames reached so far and wide, he could see the patterns they made so clearly even though he was far away. The performer had to be exhausted. Everything was timed to perfection, the drums only adding to the suspense. 

_This_ was why they called it art, he realized. The amount of work it would have taken, the years of practice, all for less than a half hour of wide-eyed amazement. 

“Brilliant!” Teucer breathed, as the act ended, the performer assuming his closing position as the audience erupted into applause, every single one on their feet. 

They went home in a daze, the images from the night still fresh in their minds. 

“They say he will break the record for the number of performances sold out in a row,” Teucer mentioned, as they climbed back in through their window.  
“Master Odysseus is already one of the richest troupe masters thanks to him.” 

Patroclus gaped. He had known Master Odysseus had a well-known troupe, but he hadn’t realized how much. Not all performers who lived in the troupe master’s household worked for his principal group. Many of them, like Antilochus, were loaned out to other trainers. It was how the troupe masters made money, even from performers who didn’t fit in with their main aesthetic. 

Now he knew. Master Odysseus, like all the most successful trainers, specialized in the highest risk entertainment. Fire performances could make or break a troupe master’s career. The performers were often too weak, and would fizzle out before they reached their prime. Others simply had no idea how to control their abilities, and could become a danger to the audience, the crew, and even themselves. 

Fame was short-lived. It was perhaps why Phoinix had advised him to stay away from the stage. But he was just a boy, and he didn’t know, at the time.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was their last night in Polis Thugater, and they were already mourning at having to leave. It had been a magical week, even if the tiredness of their bones protested otherwise. 

“Patroclus,” the cook said. “I need you to make a delivery for me.” 

Master Odysseus was having a party at his second lodge, to celebrate a lucrative opening night. It was getting so out of hand that they needed both kitchens to keep pumping out dishes. 

He carried the packages of food on a yoke, trying not to trip over the weight. It was a long way to the other lodge, on the other side of town. He could see it as soon as he entered the street - the lanterns burned all the way from beginning to end - it must have cost a fortune, to keep them lit the entire night. 

But Master Odysseus was known for his ostentatious tastes. 

The kitchen was all the way on the bottom floor, and it was a real task navigating the hallways and trying not to bump into people or drop the carefully prepared food. The smell of it was making him hungry. 

He passed by darkened rooms, heard people talking in some of them. Perhaps he had gotten lost. He shouldn’t have to go past the living quarters to get to the kitchen.  
\---

He _had_ gotten lost, he decided. It was time to retrace his steps, and find the stairway that led to the bottom floor. This second lodge was enormous. It had to serve as a guesthouse, for wealthy spectators who watched the performances often. 

The floor was polished so smoothly that his feet slipped over it and he ended up on his knees, struggling to get back up with the yoke so heavy on his shoulders. 

There had been a loud sound when he fell. One of the doors slid open. 

He looked up, and nearly jumped. 

It was the performer from the fire dance. He knew it was, even though he hadn’t been able to see the face from up there in the rafters. 

He was much younger than Patroclus expected, no older than fifteen or so. Their eyes met for a brief second, and then the performer walked past, not giving him a second glance. 

He nearly dropped the yoke when he saw. 

The back of the performer’s robe, all the way down to the floor. One of _his_. He had painted that. 

The silver fish, and the streams of water, rippling over the silk like it was alive. Now he knew what happened to his creations. He had recognized it, even from so far away during the performance.

 _Your work has gotten too good_ , Phoinix had said. Not too good for Odysseus’ stars, it seemed. 

A flutter arose in his chest at the sight. Someone with as much grace and power as that fire dancer, wearing one of his like a second skin. It was well suited, he thought. The silver fish, dancing away from his reach. It had been meant for someone else.


	4. Chapter 4

“Patroclus!” Antilochus’ voice, clear through the air like the chime of a bell. He heard the sound of running footsteps, the other boy out of breath as he caught him by the arm. 

He gave Antilochus a questioning look. His friend was pink-cheeked, eyes glittering in excitement. Good news, it seemed. 

“The best thing has happened!” Antilochus whispered, looking around to make sure Phoinix wasn’t there to berate them. 

“We are to be sent to Polis Thugater. You and me! Master Odysseus wants you to start your training!”

Training? He really hadn’t been thinking about it at all. He recalled the cistern at the back of the house, which Phoinix had kept a stern eye over ever since that day, years ago, now. He hadn’t thought he would ever get to show anyone again. 

Antilochus grinned and squeezed his knee. The other boy’s enthusiasm was infectious. He tugged at Antilochus’ sleeve and raised a hand in further question. 

Somehow, Antilochus always understood exactly what he meant.  
“They say the master is going to buy the Sparrows,” Antilochus explained. 

That was news, indeed. It was rare for a troupe master to own an entire flight group. Most of them loaned out their flyers, as Master Odysseus had done with Antilochus. 

“So we will all live in Polis Thugater and train there.” Antilochus sighed happily.  
“I never get to see what it’s really like, Patroclus. I only ever get to fly over it. There must be a reason people come from all over to see the city.” 

He nodded. He _had_ seen its charms, the week he had been there with Teucer. But that seemed so long ago now. He’d tried hard to describe the fire dance to Antilochus, but it hadn’t worked. So he’d painted it instead, on one of the scrap pieces of fabric that Phoinix would have otherwise thrown away. 

The painting didn’t do the dance any justice, in his opinion. But at night, he and Antilochus would huddle under the blankets with an oil lamp and look at it, smoothing over the fabric, the folds and creases making the picture seem like it could come alive. 

Phoinix would have beaten him to near-death if he found out he had used the paints for another purpose. But he and Antilochus had their ways, the old caretaker’s wrath becoming less of a worry the older they grew.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Patroclus.” Phoinix called him to his side when they were preparing dinner that night.

The old man didn’t say anything for a while, black eyes shining beadily as they usually did.  
“Things will be different in Polis Thugater. I am speaking of this now, because there are rules you need to understand. Rules no one else will tell you about.” 

When Patroclus didn’t respond, Phoinix nudged him with his walking stick. The old man had a look on his face, one that rarely surfaced. He almost seemed … wary. 

“Master Odysseus wants you to train for a reason. But do not forget what you are - there is _worth_ to what you bring to the troupe. You must be mindful of what he says to you, no matter what happens in the arena.” 

He didn’t understand, and Phoinix could see. The old man sighed and rubbed at his forehead.  
“It can be exciting, for a young boy, starting his training for the first time. Just remember; Master Odysseus is a troupe master, first and foremost, and a trainer, second. If it does not work out for you, Patroclus … you mustn’t let it affect you. I cannot protect you in Polis Thugater. So you must use your head, understand? Know to keep to yourself when it is needed. It might prove a most useful tool.” 

He hadn’t the slightest idea how those words would come back to him, one day. At the time, they were but the ramblings of an old man who did not approve of the stage. 

He nodded and smiled, showing Phoinix he got the message.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They had been in the city for nearly a month, and the master had still not called him for his training yet. He was given chores to do, as usual, nearly double what he would have done for Phoinix. He and Antilochus were settled in the bigger lodge, which served as a guesthouse. It was never empty. 

He had a room on the top floor, where the ceiling was low above him. He liked that it had a window, and he could look out at the moon. Yet, he wished he shared it with Antilochus. The other boy was in a separate wing with the Sparrows, on the same floor as the master’s more experienced performers. 

Sometimes, he would go down to the kitchen at night to warm himself by the oven. It got awfully cold on the top floor. He waited until the cooks had retired, then he would slowly make his way down the stairs. Nobody bothered him at this time. On his way down, he would always pass the other performers’ rooms. A few times, he caught a glimpse of the boy from the fire dance. 

It was hard not to recognize him, now. His posters were all over the main street. It was strange, seeing those advertisements, and then seeing the person himself, casually strolling the halls. 

He had come to know him by reputation, more than anything. This was the master’s rising star, the face of the troupe.

“Don’t put too much salt in the broth,” the cook would say when they were rushing to serve at mealtimes. “Achilles won’t drink it otherwise.” 

“Don’t make so much noise when you clean the pipes. You’ll wake Achilles during his afternoon nap.” 

“Don’t take the rubbish out that door. The smell will reach Achilles’ room.” 

Don’t do this, don’t do that. He obeyed, even when the orders became ridiculous. 

Achilles. That was the name printed on all the posters. He couldn’t read, but when he saw them now, the name rang in his head. He had taken the painting with him, and kept it under one of the floorboards. Antilochus didn’t ask to see it anymore - he probably saw Achilles all the time, now.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One day he was asked to clean out all the rooms in the performers’ wing. It had been an opening night, and that always meant the lodge was busier than usual. Sometimes the performers brought guests back to their rooms, and he could hear them laughing when he crept down to the kitchen in the small hours. 

The rooms were a mess. It took him the whole afternoon to tidy them, even at his fastest. When he got to Achilles’ room, much further away from the others, he hesitated before sliding the door open. 

It was a spacious, beautiful room. He hadn’t seen anything quite like this before, but it reminded him of the house in Polis Mater, with its wood paneling and tapestries. There was a large mirror on one side of the wall, and a table with various objects. Gifts, from patrons. 

They were the ones who contributed money for the performances, and attended every event. Antilochus had told him all about it. Any good troupe would attract wealthy patrons, and Master Odysseus’ had some of the best. 

He made quick work of it, clearing and organizing everything, trying not to touch too many things. They were luxury items, and he didn’t know what sort of punishment he would get if he broke one of them. He had gotten to the wardrobe when he paused, seeing the racks of costumes meticulously lined up next to each other. 

Was his silver fish among them? He craned his neck, trying to see if he could find it. They were nearly all silks that he had made. He recognized so many, smiling when he saw them. The flock of birds against the clouds, that he had painted with Antilochus in mind. Greens and blues, golds and reds. What a strange feeling it was, seeing them arranged so carefully in someone else’s space. 

“Who gave you permission to enter my room?” 

He jumped, nearly dropping his bucket and rag. 

Achilles was standing in the doorway, watching him. Slowly, he strode forward, eyeing Patroclus up and down like a stray animal caught indoors. 

“Well?” 

He frowned when Patroclus didn’t answer. 

“Don’t they teach you farm boys any manners, these days?” 

He was standing close enough now that Patroclus caught a whiff of his scent, some fragrance he couldn’t put a name to. He had never seen anyone so effortlessly stylish. There were dark circles under Achilles’ eyes, and he was only half dressed, as though he had rolled out of bed just a few minutes ago. Yet, his disheveled state only seemed to add to his glamor. All Patroclus could do was try not to stare. 

Achilles’ gaze did not cease, eyes seeming to pierce the skin. They were hard as stone, the only part of his appearance that was hard to look at. He turned to the wardrobe. 

“Did you touch these?” 

Patroclus shook his head frantically, and took a step back. 

Achilles was silent for a while. Then he walked up to the wardrobe, running a hand over the silks one by one. 

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Patroclus kept his eyes on the ground. 

“It would be a shame if they were spoiled by filthy country hands.”

He twiddled his fingers nervously, running his thumbs over the cracked skin of his knuckles. He knew there was dirt around the fingernails, the skin rubbed off on the palms. 

“Let me see them.” 

He looked up at Achilles, feeling the heat rushing to his face. His throat constricted, nearly making a sound against his will. 

At Achilles’ insistent glare, he reached out, showing him his hands, feeling them shake a little in embarrassment. 

Achilles’ gaze flickered down, then up to his face, lip turning upwards a little in derision. 

“So you see?” 

He leaned closer, the strands of his golden hair nearly brushing Patroclus’ cheek. 

“One touch, and you could ruin everything.” 

His voice had gotten quiet, but it made Patroclus want to turn around and flee. In that moment, he had never wished more to be invisible. 

Achilles leaned back and smiled, and he got the hint that it was time to go. He clutched his bucket and hurried out, not looking back.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Never seen anything like it, have you?” Master Odysseus mused, watching Patroclus gaze up in awe at the construction of the dome. They were in one of Polis Thugater’s central amphitheaters, and above them, wooden beams held up the dozens of workers in the middle of building the ceiling. 

There were rumors that this was going to be a main event site for the Sparrows. Flight groups did not usually perform indoors, and it would be a novelty, being able to watch them up close. The flyers were notoriously less profitable than other performers, because they could be seen so easily in the sky. Only the wealthy bought tickets to gain the best views. Yet it seemed, Master Odysseus had found a way to bring it to a mainstream audience. 

They stopped at the side of the stage, where several pools of water had been prepared. Patroclus nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw the people there. They were gathered in small groups, but it was what they were doing that caught his attention. 

He watched as they slowly took charge of the pools around them, wielding it the way he had seen others manipulate wind, or fire. Streams of water floated from their fingertips, creating ribbon-like lines in midair. It was a mesmerizing sight - like seeing the tip of a butterfly wing poking out of its cocoon, transformed, yet somehow still the same. They were in the middle of a practice session, it seemed, and he hung back, uncertain how to approach. 

Master Odysseus seemed to sense his apprehension and placed a hand on his back.  
“Nothing like seeing your own, isn’t it?” 

He turned Patroclus so they were face to face, and leaned down so they were at eye level.  
“You are meant to play a very important part in the troupe, Patroclus. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. How confining it must have been, sitting in the house forbidden from practicing your art.”

He bit his lip - it _had_ been. And it had not been, as well. It was sometimes easy to forget that he had any abilities at all; they had been beaten out of him quite effectively in Polis Mater. Yet every day at the lodge, even after his encounter with Achilles … he searched for it. His day at the river, a memory from times past. And how it served as a constant reminder. 

“The thing about water,” Master Odysseus started, steering Patroclus to the other practitioners. “Is that it is able to take on many forms.” 

They stood back and watched how the others manipulated the rivulets from the pools, folding and unfolding, creating patterns of their own. 

“Water is not fleeting like the wind, nor does it need to be nurtured to life, like fire. There is no singular way to control it - and that is why it is impossible to master.” 

He stepped forward, entranced by the graceful movements of the others. Would he be like that one day? He could see they weren’t performers. As lovely as the patterns were, they were not flashy enough, not unpredictable enough to draw in a crowd. These people were not made for the stage. 

Why were they important, then? He wished he could ask Master Odysseus, but the latter seemed to guess at his thoughts. 

“It is hard to see past the presentations we display on the stage,” the troupe master continued.  
“So much beauty, so much force - it does not come without a price.” 

He frowned. Years of hard work, years of practice. Was that the price he spoke of? 

“We have made an industry out of harnessing the forces of nature. Yet, when you try to hold the reins of a horse that does not submit, you might find yourself thrown off its back. So too the rules of fire.”

Intricate footwork to the beat of the drum. A conjuring of flames that reached all the way to the ceiling. How he had jumped away from the edge of his seat, for fear of being scorched. 

Fire, the wildest of the elements. The most eye-catching. The one that had built a fortune for men like Master Odysseus. But what protected its users from hurting themselves? 

He knew flyers like Antilochus often lost their abilities at a young age. Perhaps it was the same with the performers who wielded fire, like Achilles and other famous names. But while there was no way for the flight groups to preserve their abilities, performers who worked with fire were able to replenish themselves with their natural opposite.

As his classes began, he learned more of what his purpose in the troupe was. Water was an extremely difficult element to manipulate, which made its users all the more rare. They served as a way to balance the scales. 

When the fire became too volatile and unpredictable, they absorbed the worst of its heat. When the performers were ready to pass out from exhaustion, they replenished them. 

“Water is a reflection of the world around it,” Master Odysseus had said.  
“It is how we defeat the fire, by showing it its true face.”  
\---

He was no good at it. The silver fish seemed to move even further from his memory, the longer he struggled in his classes. He could not seem to make the water move, could not conjure it from the pool. The others did it with ease. The harder he tried, the less attainable it seemed. Perhaps Master Odysseus had been wrong about him. Perhaps it was possible to lose his abilities before he had even started.  
\---

“They’re called levelers,” Antilochus explained, at night when he slipped into Patroclus’ room, huddling close together, as they always did. 

“They are trained as partners for the fire wielders, to make sure no one gets killed or hurt during the performances. It’s not exactly glamorous,” he shrugged.  
“But it _is_ a hard job. You have to be on your toes at all times. It’s a real honor, Patroclus.” 

He nudged Antilochus and waved the painting in front of him. The painting of Achilles’ fire dance. 

Antilochus smiled at him sheepishly. “Levelers don’t perform, Patroclus. I’ve never heard of them doing so, anyway. But every fire wielder needs one. Did you know - Achilles has never had a leveler before. And they say his performances are starting to slip.” 

He could scarcely believe it. Achilles was quickly making his name as the most famous performer in all Polis Thugater. Nearly half of their patrons had been brought in because of him. It was why he could get away with so much - because he had earned it. 

Leveler. He tried out the word, moving his lips to match the syllables. He didn’t want to be a leveler. He shook his head to himself. Antilochus caught the motion and chuckled at him. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re going to be the best leveler there ever was, Patroclus! And I bet you’ll never fall into a roof like I did.” 

He dug around in Patroclus’ pockets. “Now, where is it?” 

He couldn’t help but let his thoughts melt away. Everything was so easy, with Antilochus. It made him forget there was anything to worry about in the first place. He reached out and showed Antilochus the red candy folded into his palms. 

“Where do you hide these things?” Antilochus exclaimed, taking one and unwrapping it. 

Those were the days. The smell of the sugar, Antilochus’ warmth next to his, and the window letting in the last threads of moonlight before dawn arrived. What more could he have wanted?  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time he witnessed the use of the Collar, he had just turned twelve. 

It had been raining for days, and the air hung heavy on the skin. He was carrying baskets of grain into the kitchen, wondering why they were making bread in the middle of the day, when he heard the commotion. 

“It’s Little Ajax!” someone shouted, and the others ran in the same direction, bare feet thumping against the wood floor. He stared after them. 

Little Ajax was the smaller counterpart of Big Ajax. The two had been purchased from their troupe by Master Odysseus not too long ago, and were one of the main attractions next to Achilles. He had never seen their act - but he had certainly heard of it. The two were known for using each other as targets, conjuring fire to eliminate the other, always narrowly missing being burned. It was like a duel of flames, some people said. 

In the class of fire performances, there were three kinds. The dances, like Achilles was renowned for. The suspense acts, where performers worked in teams, showcasing dangerous feats that made the audience hold their breath in anticipation. And of course, the illusion acts, where performers could create scenes from fire that imitated real life. Of the three, their troupe boasted the best performers in two categories. If Master Odysseus ever got hold of a master illusionist, it would be like striking gold.  
\---

He was about to proceed to the kitchen when all the cooks and their kitchen maids ran out, some pushing the ones in front of them.  
“Come on, Patroclus!” one of the cook’s boys called to him. He had never seen the lodge in such disorder before. 

Outside, nearly the entire staff was gathered in a circle. He stood on his tiptoes, and crouched low to get a glimpse. Everybody was intent on finding a good spot, and he couldn’t see what was happening. Some other people had entered the gates too, people from other troupes and lodges. What was going on? 

The crowd seemed to be conflicted. Some were whispering excitedly, others had solemn looks on their faces. Either way, it was an event no one wanted to miss. 

“Here, Patroclus,” said one of the boys from the Sparrows, Eurypylus. He was older and taller, and hoisted Patroclus onto his back so he could see. He frowned in confusion when he was met with the sight.

In the middle of the circle was Little Ajax, lying on the paved ground. He was curled up in a ball. Why was no one helping him? 

He gripped Eurypylus’ shoulders, the fabric of the older boy’s flying costume bunching up under his fingers. Standing next to Little Ajax was Master Odysseus, looking down at him with a serious expression on his face. 

“Look, it’s almost taking him,” one of the other Sparrows whispered. 

Patroclus squinted closer, trying to figure out what everyone was watching for. Nothing seemed to be happening. A few seconds passed, where the whispers and murmurs died down, people simply standing by in silence. 

And then a series of flames erupted from Little Ajax’s body, causing the crowd around him to gasp. 

He gripped Eurypylus even harder. Why was no one stopping it? Why? 

“I didn’t think it would work,” Eurypylus murmured. “Patroclus, stop moving around or I’m going to drop you.” 

He struggled anyway, a small grunt escaping as they watched Little Ajax engulfed by the flames. _His own flames_. 

“Fuck, imagine that happening to you,” the other Sparrow boy whispered, tilting his head to the side like he was watching any other performance, not a man being burned to death.

“I would never break the rules,” Eurypylus replied. 

“Mercy that they gave him a sedative, though,” the Sparrow boy said. 

The sounds kept coming out of his mouth, like they were being strangled out of him. How could they stand here and watch? How could they? 

Eurypylus noticed and patted the side of his leg. “First time, little friend? You’re doing just fine. I threw up all over myself my first time seeing a collaring. If only people would learn that they’re going to get caught.” 

Collaring? He had never heard the term. He stared harder, and sure enough, there was an iron shackle around Little Ajax’s neck. There wasn’t much left of the man, and the smoke was getting so heady that many people were starting to cover their mouths and noses. 

He didn’t want to see anymore. He didn’t want to know what Little Ajax had done, to warrant such a punishment. He tapped Eurypylus to let him down. 

As his feet touched the ground, he caught sight of a window overlooking the courtyard they were standing in. Inside, a lone figure was watching the proceedings. They locked eyes for a moment, him and Achilles. 

And suddenly, he had never wished more to be home with Phoinix, in his little room, painting the silks and oblivious to the world around him. 

_There are rules you need to understand. Rules no one else will tell you about_. 

For the first time in a long while, he wondered what kind of world he had been brought into.  
A distant night, damp clothes in a bumpy wagon. The clink of coins, a bolted door. Crying himself to sleep for many nights, until a kind voice had interrupted him. 

He had been given a name. But that name did not belong to him. Perhaps it never would.


	5. Chapter 5

It was not the same watching the Sparrows in the dome. There had been something about their flight sequence in open air, held back against the bright sky, that had given it a kind of magic. Here, he watched as workers dragged the large machines into the arena, metal contraptions that could expel air. 

The flyers had a hard time getting used to it, as the air was hot and powerful, surging from the machines and throwing them off balance. 

“I hate it,” Antilochus complained, rubbing his backside where he had slammed into the side of the dome more than once.  
“They are taking everything good from our performance, just so they can sell more tickets! We’re a laughingstock to the other flight groups, you know.” 

Somehow Patroclus doubted it. In a few short weeks, the Sparrows would make their debut in the arena, the first ever flight group to be seen up close from the seats. If it was a success, the others would inevitably follow. He had heard Master Odysseus talking about it too many times. 

He was still making slow progress in his classes, even though it had been a good two years now. 

“Most levelers don’t reach their full potential until they have been practicing for at least ten,” Master Odysseus had laughed, seeing his worry. 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something missing. This was not how water was meant to feel like, not to him. If he closed his eyes, he could picture it, how he could be a part of the water itself. It was not something to be controlled, not the way he was training to do. Yet, it was what all the others did, and there wasn’t anyone who told him otherwise.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------

His inability to speak was usually overlooked by the staff at Master Odysseus’ lodge. They didn’t care as long as he followed orders and got the work done. After being there for several years, he soon learned that the same could not be said for the performers. 

“Hey, boy!” 

He came across a group of them lounging in the performers’ wing. The one who had called him was Ajax, who had stopped going by Big Ajax ever since the death of his counterpart, Little Ajax. 

Ajax did not usually pay him any mind, but today he seemed intent on something, eyes gleaming wickedly as he waved Patroclus over.  
“Come here, boy.” 

The others hid their laughs as Patroclus approached. 

He paused when he spotted Achilles at the window, spread out casually against a lounging mat and deliberately ignoring the others. He had made it a point to avoid the troupe’s star ever since their encounter in Achilles’ room. 

“A little birdie tells me you’re training to be a leveler,” Ajax said, grinning wide at Patroclus. 

The others nudged him, exchanging whispers. 

“So you’re going to be one of us at some point, hmm?” Ajax turned towards the others.  
“We should welcome him to the family.” 

They snickered.

He could feel Achilles’ eyes on him as the warmth rose to his face. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Achilles snapped, when the laughter grew louder. 

They stopped at the sound of his voice. Achilles’ gaze seemed to bore holes into Patroclus’ face as he spoke. 

“Levelers will never be one of us. They wouldn’t dare show their faces on the stage. Isn’t that right, farm boy?” 

“Farm boy!” one of the others spluttered. 

“Is that true?” Ajax asked. It seemed that his interest had been piqued.  
“You’ll never perform?” 

“They are trained to clean up after us,” Achilles replied. “That is all they are good for.” 

“Nobody asked you,” Ajax retorted. He turned to Patroclus. 

Everyone else had fallen silent, waiting for Patroclus to say something. He gulped. He reached up to his throat, the gesture he used to let others know that he was incapable of answering. 

“Is it true?” Ajax repeated. He was leaning forward, gaze intent. 

Patroclus stared back.

“Oi, why doesn’t he answer?” one of the others asked. 

He pointed at his throat again, willing Ajax to understand. 

Comprehension dawned on Ajax’s face, then. At this point, most people would have started to ignore him. But a small smile crossed Ajax’s face. 

“I can’t hear you.” 

Patroclus wrung his hands, wishing the floor would swallow him up. He could see Achilles watching him again, this time in curiosity. 

“Come on, don’t be shy. We are all waiting, you know,” Ajax continued. 

He shook his head, glancing at the doorway. Ajax noticed and gripped his wrist. 

“Are you being disrespectful, boy? _Speak up_.” 

He swallowed, and made a noise. 

“What was that? I _still_ cannot hear you. Speak _up_.” 

The others had been egging Ajax on, but their laughter was laced in discomfort the more Ajax spoke. The man's grip on Patroclus’ wrist grew tighter. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Antilochus strode out from behind them, and slapped Ajax’s hand away. His face was a mask of fury - Patroclus had never seen him look that way before. 

“Oh look, it’s the little Sparrow,” someone whispered. 

Antilochus ignored them and stepped forward to face Ajax. 

“He can’t _speak_ ,” he fumed. 

“I was just trying to help him get it out,” Ajax replied, shrugging. His nonchalant attitude only served to anger Antilochus more. 

“Fucking cocksucker,” Antilochus hissed at him. 

“Ooooh,” the others said, growing excited at such open defiance. 

“All of you! You’re -” He proceeded to let out a string of curses, the likes of which Patroclus had never heard before, let alone could comprehend. 

It only made the others laugh more, but he noticed the glint in Ajax’s eye, at being disparaged in such a way by someone who was not his equal. 

Antilochus took Patroclus’ hand and dragged him away, face red from having to face down senior performers. 

“Sorry,” he muttered at Patroclus. “I might have made it even worse for you.” 

He shook his head, gripping Antilochus’ shoulder. Antilochus’ features seemed to smooth out at the touch, the red fading away. 

“It’s just - fuck, I hate the senior performers sometimes. They think the world of themselves. Doesn’t matter that their acts can be shit, they think it gives them a pass to treat everyone else like we’re beneath them. They make the troupe money and it’s all that anyone ever cares about. I’m so sick of it.” 

Antilochus paused and took a breath. He glanced up at Patroclus, then gave a sheepish smile. 

“Well, that was my rant for the day.”

Patroclus returned his smile. The stress was getting to Antilochus, he could see. None of the Sparrows liked the new format, and the flight group had never been treated particularly well by the other performers in the first place. 

“Doesn’t matter. Give it a couple of years, and most of them will have lost their abilities. We’ll see how many of them are left when the Sparrows make their name in Polis Thugater. And when you finish your training,” Antilochus grinned, his cheery demeanor back again. 

_If_ he ever finished his training, Patroclus thought, with a sigh.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day came when his concerns for the future were washed away, like the soil in the fields during the flood. 

He wasn’t blind to what the guesthouse really was, but still, it was a topic that had never concerned him. He had been a child, a servant whose only responsibilities were to do what he was told and keep his head down. He knew that the troupe was able to fund performances because of their patrons’ money. He had heard performers bringing patrons back to their rooms after a show, and knew to stay away from the wing at those hours. 

Achilles was particularly well-known for this. He had brought in a good number of wealthy sponsors to the troupe, and was always seen with one of these men after a show. 

He’d tried to ask Antilochus about it, but didn’t know how. Being a performer himself, Antilochus would also be required to entertain guests - but the Sparrows had yet to attract any patrons, so it was likely that Antilochus didn’t know any more about it either. 

It was on the Sparrows’ debut night, and Master Odysseus had thrown a party at his lodge. The show had been a success - sold out, to the last seat. It was the birth of a new form of entertainment where the flight groups were concerned. Now, troupes would be angling to purchase their own groups left and right, in order to compete with the trend Master Odysseus had set.  
\---

It was awfully noisy in the dining hall, servers weaving past each other, balancing trays of food and trying not to trip. He blinked up at the bright lights, his wrists aching from the heavy plates and glasses he’d had to clear away continuously. 

Most of the guests had pipes of tobacco, and the room was filled with smoke, making him cough a little everywhere he turned. In one corner of the room, Achilles was seated next to a large man with black hair and a beard. He tried not to stare as Achilles poured the man drink after drink, talking amiably. 

It seemed even Achilles could summon a good mood where patrons of the troupe were concerned. A few seats away, and he could guess why. Master Odysseus observed the scene like a hawk. 

He was nearly done with his shift when it came to his attention that he was being watched. 

He glanced up, searching, until his gaze landed on a man sitting near the troupe master. He hadn’t even noticed the man when he was clearing away dishes - unremarkable looking, blending into the background. But now that their eyes met, he found his skin prickling in self-consciousness. The man smirked at him, but didn’t look away. He lowered his gaze and continued his work, until another boy came to relieve him of his shift.  
\---

Throughout the night, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from lingering on that sordid stare. Even alone in the bathhouse, savoring the last of the hot water - it felt as though something crawled under his skin, and was determined to stay there. 

He finished up his bath, toweling himself dry and quickly changed into his night clothes. The cold air outside the bathhouse was always a shock after enjoying the hot water. He let it school his senses, told himself that the hairs standing straight on his skin were because of the night chill.  
\---

He had almost fallen asleep when urgent knocking sounded on his door. A second later, a wall of light fell over him. 

“Hey!” someone whispered. 

He looked up to see one of the senior housekeeping staff. 

“Get up, boy. You’re being asked for.”

He scrambled up from the covers, blinking away the harshness of the light from the doorway. 

“Hurry!” the housekeeper hissed. “They don’t like to be kept waiting.” 

He got up, in a daze, and the housekeeper took him by the arm and led him over to the stairs, down the hallway and towards the guests’ quarters. He’d never frequented this part of the lodge before. Only the senior staff members were entrusted with overseeing the wellbeing of the guests. The hallways were long and dark, each door covered with red drapes. This was the most lavish part of the lodge, and he could see why common servants like himself were not allowed in unless given special permission. 

He tugged on the housekeeper’s sleeve in question, but she simply shook her head at him and urged him to hurry along. 

They came up to a door at the end of the hall, left slightly ajar. He could see the lamplight shining from inside, and was even more confused than ever. 

“Here we are. When you’re done, close the door behind you,” the housekeeper said, and left him there. 

He stared after her retreating figure, feeling the beginning of trepidation in his gut. He looked back at the door, and slowly approached, pushing it open wider and peeking in. It was a modest room, with simple furniture. The bed in the corner was high up, on four legs, nothing like his own mattress on the floor. 

The man from the party was standing by the window with his back to him. 

He hesitated, and thought about ducking away, but the man had heard the door creaking open and turned around. 

“Ah, there you are,” he said, smiling, and beckoned Patroclus over. 

He was dressed unlike anyone Patroclus had seen before - long trousers, a matching jacket, and a buttoned shirt underneath, all in solid colors. 

“Quite the celebration, wasn’t it? I must admit I do not visit Polis Thugater enough to be familiar. Just blind luck that I happened to catch the show.” 

He looked friendly enough, up close. 

Patroclus let out a breath. 

“What’s your name?” the man asked. 

He cocked his head to the side when Patroclus simply shook his head. 

“Shy, are we?” 

Patroclus shook his head again, touching his throat. 

The man looked at him for a while. 

“Pity. It must be hard for you here.” His voice had gotten soft. 

“My name is Clysonymus. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Patroclus nodded at Clysonymus, hoping he was being polite enough. He didn’t really have any experience around the guests, only to keep out of their way. 

“Would you like something to drink?” Clysonymus beckoned towards a tea tray in the corner. Without waiting for a response, he poured out two cups for them. 

The scent of plum blossom filled the room, and it made Patroclus’ eyes fall shut. How many times had he helped the kitchen staff brew that exact tea, for the performers in late afternoon? He had always wondered what it tasted like. 

Clysonymus handed him a cup, and he held it gingerly with two hands, letting the warmth seep through his fingertips, savoring the scent. 

They drank in silence, and Clysonymus took the cup from him when it was empty. 

“I bet you don’t get to go outside much,” Clysonymus remarked, motioning for him to join him at the window. 

It had been drizzling, the glass fogged up from the rain. But still, he could make out the row of red lanterns all the way up the street. Master Odysseus, sparing no expense. 

The scene was dreamlike, like a painting that had been dipped in water, its colors slowly fading until all that remained was the murky shape of what had been. 

“Such a pity,” Clysonymus kept saying. 

“But I suppose it doesn’t matter, when you look the way you do.” 

He hadn’t noticed the man so close behind him, voice low in his ear. 

And then that feeling was back again, full force, the sensation of a chill under his skin. He felt Clysonymus’ fingers around his waist, pulling at the drawstrings around his clothes. 

Then there were hands over his skin, over his ribs, dipping down to his hips.

“You’re very pretty,” Clysonymus whispered. 

He had frozen in place. 

The floor, stiff and painful under his feet. The lamplight, making his vision blur. Clysonymus’ hands, roaming his sides, going lower and lower until his knees seemed to weaken. 

He let out a soft gasp, and jerked away. 

“Don’t be shy,” Clysonymus said, walking towards him slowly. 

_Come on, don’t be shy_. Ajax’s words from before leaped into his head, and it was that memory that roused him into action. 

He backed away until he hit the wall, sending a jolt of pain up his spine. Clysonymus simply watched him, expression calm despite the change in mood. 

It was only when he pushed him away that Clysonymus seemed to snap, the friendliness in his gaze melting away. He grabbed Patroclus’ waist, fingers digging deep into the flesh. 

“Let’s not make this difficult, shall we? I’ve already paid for you.” 

And with one sweeping motion, he dragged Patroclus away from the wall and towards the bed. 

He could feel his breath coming out in short bursts, legs starting to tremble as Clysonymus’ shadow fell over him. How could this have happened? It was all too fast, and his mind was racing, but he couldn’t seem to grab hold of his thoughts. He flailed, pushing Clysonymus’ hands away every time they tried to grab at him, ignoring the man’s impatient demands. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he heard him hiss. 

He simply shook his head, opening his mouth to yell, although it made his throat hurt. What came out was a soft grunt, more animal than human, and he could feel the tears smarting in his eyes, the desperation taking over. 

No one was going to hear him. And even if they did … no one was going to help him. 

Clysonymus had apparently heard enough, and made quick work of removing his clothes. He could feel the man, and it made him ill, made his stomach constrict. 

“Shut up!” Clysonymus growled, clamping his hand over Patroclus’ mouth. 

He saw his chance, then, and bit down, hard. He bit down until he tasted blood, until his heart started pounding fast when he heard the man’s enraged yell. 

He slipped out under the man’s grasp and ran to the door, pulling it open and racing out, ignoring the screaming that came up behind him. 

They had disturbed other guests in the hall, but he kept his eyes averted from the opening doors, the curious glances, and ran all the way back to his room. 

He pushed his mattress in front of the door and huddled in the corner, under the covers, flinching every time he heard footsteps go past.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The slap was enough to send him reeling to the floor. Master Odysseus had gotten so white, he thought the man would collapse. 

He had never seen the master angry before. It made his insides go cold, even though one side of his face burned like nothing else. 

“You _ignorant, useless_ -” Master Odysseus stopped himself, the fire in his dark eyes seeming to go out for a moment. 

A second later, and it was back again. 

“Do you have any idea what you have cost me? What you have cost the _troupe_?” 

He stayed on the floor, clutching at his stinging face, and held back tears as that dark glare seemed to pin him in place. 

“He was the son of a nobleman! He could have brought us to _ruin_! All because you couldn’t lie still and open your legs -”

“Odysseus,” someone said, and he turned to see a younger man he had never met before.  
“He’s very _young_.” 

Master Odysseus looked like he was going to explode that very second, but caught himself. The lines on his face stood out, and he hunched over and sighed.  
“I have worked too hard to build this place up from the ground. I will _not_ allow a mute to destroy everything for me.” 

He glared at Patroclus again.  
“The money we had to refund him was more than you could ever be worth. And we have lost an important patron for the Sparrows. Who _knows_ what he’ll say about us. Reputation is everything, _everything_ , in this business!” 

“Odysseus,” the younger man said again, gently. 

Master Odysseus growled and took a seat. He pointed at Patroclus. 

“You are going to spend the rest of your life paying for this, understood?”

Patroclus could only nod helplessly. 

“You can forget about training. You are not _worth_ my time. You are going to spend every _second_ in this lodge, until your hands are red, your feet broken. Perhaps _then_ you will know what it takes to carry an industry on your back.”

He had stopped responding, only able to stare back at the master, his throat thick with tears. 

“Now get out of my sight.” 

He went, not sparing anyone else a second glance, although his eyes met the younger man’s briefly before he found the doorway.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He thought there was no more space on his pillow to soak up the tears. He didn’t care. 

A soft tapping on his door, and he pulled the covers over his head. No more yelling. No more strikes. He didn’t want to see or hear another person if he could help it. 

The door opened, and a slight figure slipped in. 

“Hey.” 

The covers were pulled back, and a second later, a pair of warm arms wrapped themselves around him. 

He held himself still for a moment, not wanting his sniffles to break the silence. 

“Heard what happened.” 

His lungs seemed to collapse, then, the rush of air letting itself out, and he slackened against Antilochus. He turned around and pushed his nose into his friend’s shoulder, letting the scent of soap and sweat and Antilochus cloud his senses until he could forget everything else. 

“You cry as much as you want, you hear me?”

He didn’t think there was enough room on Antilochus’ shirt to soak it all up.  
\---

He thought he must have blacked out, at one point, because when he tried to open his eyes, they were crusted shut. Antilochus had fallen asleep, and he listened to his breathing for a while before he shook him awake. 

“What is it?” Antilochus whispered. 

He stared back at him for a moment, unsure how to frame it. 

Then he wrapped both palms around his own neck, keeping his eyes on the other boy to make sure he understood. 

Antilochus did not reply for a while. 

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asked, eventually. 

Patroclus nodded. 

A few seconds passed, and he could feel Antilochus frowning, even though it was too dark to make out his friend’s face. 

“Little Ajax was given the Collar because he used his abilities against a guest. Not anyone important. But the man raped him, and he took his revenge.”

The silence fell heavy between them. He wished he didn’t know, now. 

He thought of the iron shackle around the performer’s throat, that had turned his own art against him. 

Not art. A weapon. 

It didn’t matter what they did. The abilities they had, that they trained hard for, did not belong to them. Nothing did. 

He shuddered when he thought of the Sparrows, their magnificent swoops through the air. He even thought of Achilles, the refined grace of his movements. All that beauty, all that passion, and it could be ripped away and turned against them, with one careless decision. 

The wagon in the middle of the night. The rigid rules that kept him from using his abilities outside the arena. His name. Even the painted silks he had poured his heart and soul into. 

All of it made up a world of lies, like a glass dome in the sky. 

He understood, now. He understood what he was. All those years ago, when Phoinix had sought to explain it to him. He hadn’t been able to grasp the meaning behind those words, at the time. 

But now he looked out the window, at the lanterns still burning in the street. This was their world.


	6. Chapter 6

He’d been rushing to take all the laundry in before it started to rain. There were some thunderstorms in the city, where the sky grew pitch black, like someone had spilled ink and watched as it soaked up the paper. Oddly enough, these kinds of storms seemed to give him rest. Almost like seeing the world as it truly was, a dark sky weeping over all that lay below. 

He set out pails at the corners of the lodge to collect rainwater - they used it sometimes, when the bathhouse was running low. Droplets of water collected on his skin, and he could feel the condensation on his face, warm and cold air all at once. 

It reminded him of earlier days, when Antilochus and the Sparrows would race home, trying to outfly the storm. How the other boy would throw back his head and laugh, sticking his tongue out to catch the first droplets, before running inside to avoid Phoinix’s scolding. 

The Sparrows never did any of that, now. The dome had become their province, where they trained and ate and slept, like a gilded cage and a chain around the ankles. He knew it beat down on his friend’s spirits. While the other Sparrows had gotten used to it, Antilochus was not one to be confined. 

He worried about Antilochus, sometimes. How long could his friend outfly the rain before it started to drown him?  
\---

There was a frantic knocking on the back door, where the servants carried in supplies for the kitchen. He frowned. At this time of night, the door would be bolted shut, and no one would be trying to get through. 

More knocking, and a voice yelling at him to open up. He recognized the voice, and gingerly unlocked the door, wondering what Ajax was doing here. 

As soon as he opened the door, a tall form burst through, nearly knocking him down as the person stumbled and caught himself against the wall. He stepped back in surprise, then turned to see Ajax coming through the doorway. 

“Quick,” Ajax hissed. “Shut the door!” 

He complied, shaking off his befuddlement when he saw it was Achilles who had come in first. Achilles was groaning quietly, slumping down against the wall as he abandoned his reserves. He made a gurgling sound, and Ajax looked at Patroclus in alarm. 

“Bucket! Faster, boy!” 

He had never particularly taken to Ajax, especially since the older man seemed intent on not using his name, but he grabbed a bucket and shoved it towards Achilles, who bent over and vomited, barely missing the tiles. 

What was wrong with him? He and Ajax shared a look, and he mimed drinking from a cup, the gesture he used to ask if Achilles was drunk. Ajax sighed. 

Over the years, the number of parties and banquets their troupe held had only served as a way for Achilles to free his inhibitions. Everyone in the lodge knew not to go near his room in the mornings, because he likely had a hangover and would sleep till noon, snapping at anyone who disturbed him. 

He had deterred a good number of patrons with his self-indulgent ways; they simply couldn’t keep up with the amount he drank and how often he did it. It annoyed Master Odysseus to no end - but Achilles _was_ the primary moneymaker of the troupe, and all these years he had managed to hold on to the only patron who mattered - Agamemnon. 

“Oh fuck,” Ajax muttered, when Achilles continued retching, not giving any sign of stopping. The older performer eyed Patroclus with a mixture of disdain and weariness.  
“We have to get him up to his room without anyone noticing.” 

Patroclus hesitated. They _could_ use the servants’ stairs, which he used to tiptoe to the kitchen at night when his room was too cold. It was rather unbecoming for performers to frequent the servants’ areas - but it was almost morning, and no one would be around. He shrugged, and bent over to help Ajax get a hold of Achilles. 

They dragged him up the stairs, panting slightly as each had one arm around them. Achilles was making no effort to move, and he stank of smoke and drink. Even covered in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead, he still looked the picture of masculine beauty. Patroclus rolled his eyes. Perhaps the patrons had no idea what Achilles was _really_ like, but the rest of them had been putting up with it for years. 

They dropped Achilles onto his bed and sat back, catching their breath. 

“Look at him,” Ajax complained, after a minute. 

Achilles had more or less passed out, one arm over his face. Patroclus looked at the dancer, then around the room. He hadn’t been in here since the first time Achilles had spoken to him. The memory still made his insides curl, but for a different reason. 

It must have been seven or eight years ago, now, and in all that time since, his image of Achilles had only soured. Fear and embarrassment had slowly turned to wariness, which in turn had developed into a faint dislike and indifference. 

The only thing he liked hearing about was Achilles’ performances - he would still give an arm and a leg to see one again. That hadn’t changed. 

“It’s going to be all over the city by the time dawn breaks,” Ajax continued. 

Patroclus had no idea if the older performer was talking to him, or to no one in particular. 

“It was a fuck up of a performance. Master Odysseus is going to be pissed.” Ajax ran a hand over his sweaty face.

 _That_ got Patroclus’ attention. Achilles was in his early twenties now, close to the age where many performers retired. Not out of choice, of course. Most of them simply couldn’t sustain their art and the toll it took on them. Even Ajax had retired a year or so ago. 

The older man still had his abilities, and would sometimes perform for private showings with the patrons - but his act had never been the same after his partner had died. Achilles, on the other hand, had been going strong, with a career that spanned nearly a decade. In a few years, he would probably make it as one of the greats. 

“I would get him one of those teas if I were you,” Ajax remarked. “You know how he gets in the morning.”  
He eyed Patroclus with his usual contemptuous stare, but there was no bite in it. 

Hot tea and lotus root was a popular hangover cure used in the lodge. He was all too familiar with it by the number of requests he got from the performers’ wing. He stood, giving Ajax a once-over. The man looked more tired than he’d let on. 

Ajax and Achilles could hardly be called kindred spirits. They were not comparable enough to be rivals, but that didn’t make them friends, either. Yet, that hadn’t stopped Ajax from lending a hand to his fellow performer. 

Patroclus beckoned at Ajax to follow him. The other man scowled at him at first, but gave in. They walked down to the kitchen together where Patroclus made a pot of tea for them both. 

“Funny how you were cast out not a few years ago, huh?” Ajax commented, sipping his tea. 

Patroclus found some leftover biscuits from the tin all the kitchen boys shared and took some out for him and Ajax. He didn’t like Ajax, he told himself. But it never hurt to be decent. He had gotten the other performers to treat him with a little more respect this way. 

What was left of them, anyway. Antilochus had been right at the time. Most of the troupe had lost their abilities gradually and were no longer able to perform. The lucky ones were sold to other troupes as trainers. As for the others … Patroclus didn’t know what became of them. He was secretly grateful he had never become a part of the troupe. 

“And now, Achilles needs a leveler more than ever. Yet Odysseus threw away his only hope of having one. For a stupid nobleman’s son whose patronage wouldn’t have mattered in the slightest.” 

Ajax took a biscuit and bit into it. 

“You ever regret how it turned out for you?” he continued. 

Patroclus shrugged. What was there to regret? He’d been no more than a child, afraid and unknowing. He kept his head down and did his work, like Phoinix had told him to. It was the only thing he knew to do. 

Ajax grunted. “Missed opportunities. You would have been at your prime, now, if you’d continued with your training. But no one ever said Odysseus’ judgment was faultless. He let anger get the best of him. Don’t we all?”

Patroclus bit his lip. Odysseus. He hadn’t ever thought of the troupe master as just that. A man. 

Ajax finished his tea, and got up to leave the kitchen. He lingered in the doorway for a while, as if unsure what to say. 

Pride, Patroclus thought. Hard to swallow. 

He started gathering the things and found the ingredients for Achilles’ hangover cure. It would give Ajax a chance to slip away without needing to say anything. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. 

If there was anything he had learned in his years as a servant, it was how to get by without making his life harder than it needed to be. There was no use making enemies in their already cutthroat world.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hated the show season, when guests came to the lodge from all over. They weren’t all patrons - many were just people visiting Polis Thugater to catch the performances, and needed someplace to stay. Odysseus’ lodges boasted some of the best guesthouses in the city. It was another way for the troupe to make a profit, especially when the only active performers they had were Achilles and the Sparrows. 

On busy nights like this, he was sent from one room to the next, barely having time to clean himself up between services. If he was lucky, the guest wouldn’t like him and call for someone else instead - but most of the time he was expected to entertain them. 

Sometimes he thought Odysseus had sent him to the guesthouse as a sort of petty revenge, for that night so long ago now. He had escaped, then. The thought brought a cynical smile to his face. There was no hope of that now. 

“Patroclus!” He finished up in the bathhouse and hurried to the guesthouse’s counter. The hostess stayed there all night, keeping record of the guests who came and went, accepting tokens of payment. 

“You’re wanted in Room 52.” 

She handed Patroclus the red wooden plaque that would notify other servants not to come in. He took it, finding his way down the hallways to the aforementioned room. After he knocked on the door and greeted the guest, he hung the plaque on the wall and went inside. 

Most guests did not want a boy for the entire night. It was expensive, but the few times he’d had such guests, he had counted himself lucky that he didn’t have to go room to room. There were no rules on what the guests could do to them, except not to injure them too badly. It looked like this was not one of those nights.  
\---

His arms hurt from holding himself up for so long. This man had him on all fours, and was pumping away inside of him until the headboard slammed onto the wall. He had to grit his teeth, trying to relax. His insides were going to be rubbed raw by the time this guest was done with him. 

“Ah, fuck,” the man gave a groan and gripped Patroclus’ hips, fingernails digging grooves into his skin. He could feel the man’s wiry hairs brushing against his backside, and it made him shudder. The man thrusted into him a few more times, then grabbed Patroclus’ hair and turned him around, pulling his face down to his cock.

He got the message and took him into his mouth, sucking hard until he could feel the throbbing, the man’s fingers tightening in his hair and pulling on his scalp until thick, bitter liquid spurted into his mouth. 

He found a handkerchief and spat into it when the man wasn’t looking, too wound up in his own pleasure to notice. Sometimes they watched him, and he was expected to swallow. He hated doing that. 

“Give me a few more minutes,” the man said, pulling Patroclus down next to him. 

He hesitated, then tapped the man on the shoulder and made a motion, miming a book and writing on it. It indicated that additional charges would be sent to the man’s room for keeping Patroclus more than his designated time. Most guests had no problem understanding him where money was concerned, but it didn’t hurt to make sure. He never knew when a guest would become violent if they felt they were being cheated. 

The man kept him for the rest of the night, and he trudged back to his room before daybreak, having to pause every now and then on the stairs. His lower half burned like it had been stabbed, and he knew he was not going to get any sleep. 

The skin on the insides of his thighs itched and stung. When he lit the lamp and pulled down his trousers to inspect them, he saw they were red and speckled, like he had been scratching at a rash. He’d scrubbed himself as best he could in the bathhouse. 

Some nights, he thought he spent nearly an hour in there, scrubbing and scrubbing, not caring how rough the bristles were on his skin. Anything to get the feeling of foreign hands off his body. 

He still remembered his first time in the guesthouse. The guest had started off gentle, a little drunk from a night out, but quickly turned impatient at his reluctance. His legs had been pried apart, and he’d cringed in embarrassment when he was held open for the man to see. The man hadn’t paid any attention to the sounds coming out of him, helpless sounds. He hadn’t even been able to plead for the man to stop. 

Afterwards, he’d lain in bed, thighs sticky and slimy, because the bathhouse had been clogged up and in disrepair at the time. Antilochus had found him crying and brought up a bucket and rag to clean him up, not saying a word through the whole process. He’d never felt more ashamed, had never been unable to look his friend in the eye like that. 

This reminded him of that night. He sighed, rearranged his clothes and climbed into bed. He thought of the silks on their stands, at the house in Polis Mater. He hadn’t even realized how long he had been wishing to go back, to be in his room shut away from the noise and brightness of the city. Painting and painting, until he had created a world of his own, an escape for the soul. 

He hardly ever thought of his silver fish anymore. He didn’t even think Achilles wore his silks any longer, he never saw them.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was barely light outside, and he balanced the tray in his hands as he went up the stairs from the kitchen, trying not to spill the hot tea. Another night of excess for their star, it seemed. The performers’ wing was so quiet now, with the Sparrows frequently away. Even Ajax had moved to different quarters. 

There was a lone lamp at the end of the hallway, where Achilles’ room had always been. The doors were partially open, and he paused when he saw the shadows moving along the threshold. 

Another visit from Achilles’ benefactor? He’d caught a few glimpses here and there of Agamemnon, over the years. He didn’t know enough about the man to form an opinion of him, but even Odysseus seemed to handle interactions between them with caution. A powerful man, who seemed to hold the prospects of the troupe in his hands. 

A little closer, and he started to hear the voices. Not Agamemnon, after all. He was surprised. Odysseus hardly ever paid a visit to the performers’ wing. 

“ - a disaster it was! Utterly. Shameful!” The troupe master’s voice lashed out like a whip. 

Patroclus stepped back, unsure how to proceed. He debated leaving the tea tray on the floor and scurrying away, but he had already ventured too close. He could see them both, now. 

Achilles was leaning back on his bed, watching Odysseus pace the room with a feline indifference. He tilted his head back and laughed, the lamplight reflecting off the skin of his neck. The humor never reached his eyes. 

“Another performance sold out, and you’re here to lecture me?” He tutted at Odysseus, as one might at a foolish child. 

“Does your perfectionism motivate the Sparrows so? Tell me, Master.” He said the title with a cruel curve of the tongue, almost in mockery. 

Patroclus braced himself, waiting for Odysseus’ outburst. But it never came. 

The troupe master shrugged it off like a bug against the screen.  
“You are _amused_. I would like to see if that continues once Agamemnon comes for a visit.” 

Achilles paled a little, but the smugness never quite left his face. He studied Odysseus for a while, eyes glittering. 

“Agamemnon?” He glanced down and examined his nails. 

“Agamemnon has already sold his soul for this troupe. If you fear he will withdraw, then you underestimate yourself. I am many things, but I cannot rebuild a man’s self-worth.”

 _This_ seemed to anger Odysseus, if nothing else.  
“Self worth?” he spat. 

He stopped his pacing and loomed over Achilles, expression darkened.  
“The only thing you are worth is what _I_ have given you. They might scream your name from the seats, but do not forget where it came from.” 

Achilles stared up at the other man. Patroclus had to give it to him, he did not flinch one bit. 

“What are you going to do?” he whispered. 

He rose up and faced Odysseus, so close their noses nearly touched. 

“ _Sell me_?” 

The smile on his face as he said it. 

Odysseus’ hand started to twitch, then, the beginnings of rage born from years of control. 

Patroclus couldn’t help wincing at the sight - he had known how that hand had felt when it struck him. Odysseus was not a man prone to frequent violence - so when it happened, it was as swift as the tide, coming up where one could see but was helpless to run. 

“Selfish child!” Odysseus hissed instead, right in Achilles’ ear, turning abruptly to storm out the door. 

Patroclus hurried out of sight and hid in the shadows before the troupe master could cross paths with him. 

A few moments later, and he started to set down the tray. He hadn’t known how tense things were between the two. Odysseus had always let Achilles get away with whatever he wanted. The latter had the finest room in the entire lodge, and was even rude to patrons sometimes. 

Things weren’t always what they seemed. He should have learned that lesson by now. 

He was about to leave, keeping his footsteps inaudible, when Achilles’ voice sounded out from the room. 

“Come on, then. Bring it in.” 

He shifted his feet, the hollowness in his stomach growing. His fingers clutched the tray tight as he entered Achilles’ room. The performer had never allowed him to come in before. 

Achilles held out his hand, and Patroclus rushed to pour the tea for him. 

“Enjoyed the show?” One corner of Achilles’ mouth lifted in a smirk, and his eyes were as intent as they always were. It made Patroclus want to straighten his clothes, smooth down his hair. 

_Filthy country hands_. The words echoed in his mind, and he couldn’t stop the heat from rising to his neck. When would this man ever stop getting under his skin? 

Achilles calmly sipped his tea, letting Patroclus stand in front of him with nothing to do. 

“Come here,” he ordered. 

Patroclus looked at his feet, then at Achilles. 

His thoughts flashed back to the time where he and Ajax had tirelessly dragged this very person all the way up the stairs, to avoid him getting into trouble. How the very next day, the whispers had been all over the kitchen, of how their star performer had been unable to conjure flames in the second half of his act, causing the crowd to look on in confusion, some erupting into jeers. 

A measure of sympathy filled him, then. 

And all the apprehension, the intimidation he had felt over the years; they seemed meaningless in comparison. 

He gazed back at Achilles and shook his head. He reached out a hand to take Achilles’ empty cup instead. 

He could feel Achilles’ surprise more than he could observe it. The dancer gave him a long look, the usual derisory spark leaving his eyes for a moment. 

He handed his cup to Patroclus, standing slowly. 

“No?” he questioned. 

Patroclus shook his head again. 

Achilles reached over and grabbed Patroclus’ face, his long fingers digging into the chin and jaw in a vice-like grip. 

Patroclus placed his hand around Achilles’ arm, gently but firmly, and looked him in the eye. 

They stood like that for a while. 

Then Achilles’ features smoothened, his grip softening. 

“No.” 

A second passed, and he reached around to stroke Patroclus’ cheek instead. 

The soft touch made him blink, backing away a little. 

“That face,” Achilles said, soberly. 

He shook his head, as if to himself. Then he removed his hand and turned around, his back to Patroclus. 

“Get out.” 

He did. He picked up the tray and left the room. When he glanced back over his shoulder, Achilles was standing in front of the window, the lanterns outside casting a glow over his still figure. It was an image he would embed in his memory from that day on.


	7. Chapter 7

He woke up to an urgent knocking on the door. 

“Wake up!” someone hissed. “The master wants to see you _now_!” 

That got him off the bed, wincing and rubbing hard at the gooseflesh on his arms to stave off the cold. He pulled on his clothes and hurried down the stairs to Odysseus’ study. He could see from the windows that the moon was still a sliver in the sky, but from the soft sounds of activity, the household was already beginning the day’s work. 

Odysseus’ door was wide open, and the man himself was perched on the edge of his desk, looking far from pleased. Patroclus stalled in the doorway; he had kept away from the master ever since he’d seen the anger that lay beneath the surface. 

Men like Ajax, like Phoinix, he could deal with; their harshness was a constant, like the current of the river. Odysseus, on the other hand - there was no telling when it would come up, and he thought it best to stay away. 

“Ah.” Odysseus caught sight of him, giving a sharp jerk of his chin to beckon him in. His frown seemed to deepen even more. He wasn’t alone, Patroclus could see now. Next to his desk stood Agamemnon’s younger brother, Menelaus.

It was rare to catch a glimpse of Achilles’ benefactor, but Patroclus had run into the other brother quite often, over the years. Menelaus seemed to act as a go-between for his brother. He was good-natured and far more approachable than Agamemnon. Even Odysseus seemed to regard him as a confidante. 

“Achilles is rehearsing at the arena today. You will come with us,” Odysseus remarked, casting Patroclus a bare glance. 

He could only gape at this information. He hadn’t been asked to attend a rehearsal since the abrupt end of his training, not even to carry food or help with props. 

Odysseus shared a look with Menelaus, who took it as his cue to leave. The younger man smiled at Patroclus as he passed him in the doorway, but Patroclus was too shocked to return it. 

“What are you standing there for? Get to it!” Odysseus snapped. 

He seemed to remember himself for a minute when Patroclus flinched. 

“Just - wait outside for me. I don’t want to be late.” He nodded at Patroclus.  
\---

He had never ridden in a carriage before. He tried not to fidget, wary of the troupe master seated next to him. Odysseus paid him no mind, but would shoot him an irritated glare at every movement. 

They reached the main arena where Achilles practiced. How different it looked, in daytime, the stone walls a little more worn than he remembered. What a magical night it had been then, he couldn’t help but think. 

He wondered where Teucer was, now. All the faces and names, that had disappeared over the years. He certainly hoped that boy had not been one of them.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The inside of the arena was cluttered with props, musical instruments shoved into the corners as workers lifted objects to and fro. How little audiences knew of what really went on behind the scenes. Sweat, and blood. Tired bodies, sprained backs. 

Achilles was on the center stage, his form twisted into one pose after another. It was odd seeing him move without the drums, like a painting out of its frame. 

Patroclus stopped and stared, unable to help himself. Even after all this time, the dance was still something that tugged at him, making him hold his breath, awaiting the flames. 

“Watch the movers!” Odysseus barked, as a swirl of fire came out of nowhere, mimicking the shape of Achilles’ form. Several workers who had been walking past the stage staggered back to avoid being singed, but they were clearly used to it, from the resigned expressions on their faces. 

Achilles rolled his eyes and glared back at Odysseus.  
“You’ve thrown me off rhythm!” he complained. 

Then he caught sight of Patroclus.

“What’s _he_ doing here?” 

“ _He_ is here to make sure you don’t make a mess of yourself. We have an important show next week. I don’t want you fucking it up again.” 

“A failed leveler? Is that what you’ve resorted to these days?” Achilles smirked, jumping down from the stage and accepting a flask of water from a stagehand. He stepped closer to Patroclus, never quite in arm’s reach. 

Odysseus watched him with an air of long-suffering forbearance. 

“Is that all we can afford? After _everything_ I have earned for this troupe?” Achilles continued, but there was a touch of seriousness under his mocking demeanor. 

“There aren’t many levelers available these days. You know that,” Odysseus replied, softly. “We have to take what we can get.” 

He and Achilles locked gazes, seeming to last forever. 

Achilles broke it, turning to Patroclus instead. 

“I’m sure you will enjoy yourself very much, farm boy,” he murmured, leaning close so his breath tickled at Patroclus’ ear. 

His smile widened, a glint of mischief entering his eye. 

“Achilles -” Odysseus started. 

Barely a second passed before a rush of water streamed down over Patroclus, soaking his hair and running into his eyes, down his neck, into his clothes. He choked and spluttered, realizing Achilles had upended the flask of water over his head. 

Shocked humiliation filled him to the core, as he blinked droplets out of his eyes and stared at Achilles’ perfect, remorseless face. He could see Odysseus crossing his arms in the corner of his eye, and it only made him want to curl up into himself more. 

Achilles turned to Odysseus, as though to say, _You see?_

It was that look that hooked something in Patroclus, reeled it in like bait. 

Before he knew it, drops of water rose from his skin, his hair, his clothes. It was as though time had frozen. They stayed suspended in midair for a moment, just as Achilles turned his head from Odysseus to Patroclus. 

And then the droplets weaved together into a column of water and smashed right into Achilles’ face. 

He felt one hand come up to cover his mouth as it happened. He had never - he’d never succeeded at that in his training before. Years out of practice, and it had all come rushing out, the memory of how it felt to pull at the water, the unnaturalness of it. 

He saw Achilles’ disbelieving expression, eyes widening before they gave way to anger. Achilles was the one who was soaked, now, but the sight did not give Patroclus any reprieve. He dug his fingers into his sides, feeling himself turn red, wanting to apologize but not knowing how. 

He heard Odysseus grunt beside him.  
“So your abilities haven’t faded away. We might have hope yet.” 

The troupe master walked away, looking satisfied. 

Patroclus thought Achilles was going to yell at him, then, but instead, the dancer seemed to channel his anger towards Odysseus. He glared after the man’s retreating figure. 

A stagehand handed Achilles a towel to dry himself with, but he ignored it. After a moment, his gaze landed on Patroclus. 

They looked at each other, cautiously. 

Achilles seemed like he was going to say something, his mouth opening and closing, then opening again. 

“Achilles!” Odysseus’ voice rang out, snapping them out of the moment. 

Achilles sauntered back to the stage, but every time he caught Patroclus’ eye, his gaze held that same light. Patroclus had no idea what it meant, but perhaps he had won a smidge of respect, and it confused him more than anything.  
\---

Being a leveler was not an easy job. Nor was he qualified to be one, not truly. He remembered what Antilochus had said about them - what he had learned in his classes as a boy. But still, he had gone for years thinking he would never use his art again. He had allowed his mind to abandon what he had acquired. 

He found that the knowledge was still there, but it was increasingly hard to apply his skills. Achilles was a tough act to follow - his fire was too powerful, too vital, to be reigned in by water alone. But there was a different edge to his performance as well. Patroclus had heard the rumors, but he hadn’t been able to see it for himself. 

The Achilles he had seen on that stage as a boy would have navigated the flames with ease. Not a single misstep, effortless to the very end. Now - the mastery was still there, but he could see the sweat beading on Achilles’ forehead, the clenched muscles as every lick of flame emerged. 

Achilles was wearing himself out. He did not have the stamina or the control he’d once had, and it was taking all of his strength to conceal it. 

From afar, the dance was still brilliant and faultless. But up close … Patroclus could see the split seconds in between flames, the barest hint of panic in Achilles’ eyes when he conjured the fire a step too late. 

He made up for it by expelling his energy, summoning fires that leaped to the edges of the stage in raw force, abandoning artistry for power. The problem with that, of course, was that the fire became harder to control. 

“Like an amateur,” Odysseus remarked, watching the rehearsal with displeasure. 

Behind the stage, Patroclus was struggling. There were pools of water discreetly positioned all around the platform, and he felt lightheaded trying to manipulate the water around the stage, meeting the worst of the flames so they did not appear as unruly as they really were. 

“Keep it close to his body,” Odysseus advised. “It will cool him down so he doesn’t overheat.”

He obeyed, summoning a stream that surrounded Achilles like a translucent ribbon, balancing the heat around him so that he could conjure flames that were more precise. 

Patroclus’ attempts fell flat more than once. He could feel a sharp pain in the middle of his stomach, the bile rising up to his throat. He hadn’t even realized how much force he had been using, to control the water that way. 

He slumped onto the floor, breathing hard. He squinted at Achilles and tried to keep the water going, but it started to drip down and flow back into the pool. It would have helped if he was on the stage with Achilles, but that would have ruined the facade. 

Audiences did not come from far and wide to see what went on behind the stage, the effort it took to craft a perfect fire dance. They wanted the spectacle, the suspense. They wanted the star of the show. 

Achilles was nearing the end of his dance, and his face had grown rather white in an effort to finish it off with a flair. He was known for his elegant closings almost as well as his opening trademark - the column of fire that reached the ceiling. The best dancers could time their fire patterns to their movements, creating the most beautiful visuals with both body and flame. And that was the problem with Achilles’ routine - he was slightly off beat. 

“Not bad,” Odysseus said, but he wasn’t looking at Achilles. 

“Not good, either. But you will do.” He eyed Patroclus steadily. 

Patroclus took a few deep breaths to wave off the nausea. His classes had never prepared him for this. He didn’t know if he could do it - but it seemed Odysseus had already decided for him, as he did all things.  
\---

“That was the best one I’ve seen in a while,” Ajax commented, when they were back at the lodge. Patroclus hadn’t even noticed the other man there. 

“Almost hard to believe he went without a leveler as long as he did. Stupid of him,” Ajax added. 

Patroclus shook his head. He wasn’t a leveler. He had barely managed to keep up. 

Ajax seemed to sense his thoughts. “You don’t have a choice.” 

Patroclus grimaced. He knew. Of course he knew. 

“At least you won’t be a servant anymore.” 

That made him look up at Ajax, surprise flashing through him. 

Ajax grunted. “What, you didn’t know? Menelaus offered to become your benefactor. It’s the only reason Odysseus agreed to take you on again.” 

He frowned, trying to process the information. Menelaus? 

He thought of the man, often seen consulting in Odysseus’ study. Always smiling at him when they crossed paths. Why would he want anything to do with Patroclus? 

And then it dawned on him. He had been kicked out of the troupe, sent to live out his days serving in the lodge. People who had been cast out generally did not make a comeback. In fact, he had never heard of it happening. Yet, having a benefactor would change all of that. A powerful name, that tied the artist to the troupe. Reputation was everything in this business, he had heard once. 

Odysseus must have been desperate. Was Achilles really declining so fast?  
\---------------------------------------------------------------

He was asked to move out of his room in the servants’ area, to a floor that was closer to the performers’ wing. He could scarcely believe it. Eight years on the top floor, with his little window where he could see the moon. Chilly nights, teeth chattering with his blankets drawn tight around him. He wouldn’t have to creep down to the kitchen in the middle of the night anymore. The lower floors were much warmer. 

He had a bed, a real one, with a wooden frame pushed up against the wall. It was a small room, but it was cozy. Someone had left ten whole boxes of matches in his nightstand, so he could light the oil lamp as much as he wanted. 

He lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. All of Phoinix’s old warnings leapt to his head, but for the first time in a long while, they didn’t hold the same weight as they’d had in the past years. 

_He didn’t have to serve in the guesthouse anymore_. 

_That_ was what it meant to be part of the troupe. While his will was certainly not his own, his life had suddenly become far better than what it had been. 

No longer a servant. He couldn’t even wrap his head around that one.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------

A tapping on the door, and he didn’t have to get up to know who it was. 

He smiled up at Antilochus, wondering if it was wrong to be happy. 

Antilochus perched on the edge of the bed, looking around the room, before his face split into a wide grin.  
“I’m only one floor away,” he announced. 

His face fell for a second.  
“Though we never get to come home and sleep, these days. Stupid dome.” 

He pulled back the covers and rolled over to Patroclus’ side.  
“Didn’t I tell you? A great leveler, one day.” 

Patroclus would never be great. And he still wasn’t sure about his new role in the troupe. If there had been someone else, Odysseus would have snatched them up by now. He was a last resort, and he couldn’t afford to forget it. 

But he had never been able to resist Antilochus’ enthusiasm. They were cut from different cloths, yet somehow it worked. He pointed at the oil lamp and grinned, wanting Antilochus to see the matches and how he could have light whenever he wanted. 

Antilochus’ smile softened. He bumped Patroclus’ shoulder with his.  
“We are artists,” he said. “You and I. They will never be able to take that away.” 

Patroclus cocked his head to one side, considering this. Perhaps they were.  
This was where he and Antilochus were alike, after all. Two young boys, in the house in Polis Mater. It had been the one thing they had in common. Still … it had never truly been what cemented their friendship. They knew to listen to the call of the elements, knew to turn its will in their favor.

“Hey,” Antilochus said, and reached into his back pocket. 

A second later, and he pushed something into Patroclus’ hands. A small bundle, wrapped in cloth. 

“I got this for you.” 

Uncertain, Patroclus slowly unwrapped the bundle. It was a small pile of scrap fabric, and a piece of charcoal, the kind he had used to mark his designs on the silk. 

He stared at Antilochus, fingers tightening around the objects. Precious items, they were, to someone like him. 

“You will need a voice, when you serve in Odysseus’ troupe.” 

Antilochus wrapped his hand around Patroclus’ wrist and squeezed it. 

“No matter what anyone says or does to you, promise me you won’t be silenced.” 

He bit his lip, pressing the objects to his chest. He nodded once. 

He and Antilochus were alike, in one way. But his friend had another gift, he thought. Antilochus had always known how to listen to him.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rehearsal days with Achilles became grueling. Odysseus watched them with an ever-critical eye, snapping at either one for the slightest mistake. Sometimes Patroclus forgot that he was expected at the arena. He would wake up and head down to the kitchen, then pause halfway and realize he wasn’t a servant anymore. It was a hard habit to shake. 

“Watch it!” Odysseus yelled, the third time Patroclus lost his concentration, causing water to slide down onto the stage like a wave that had lost its pull. 

The troupe master sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He often forgot how inexperienced Patroclus really was. 

“If you can’t keep it going for long, try doing it one at a time. One swirl after another. It is _vital_ that the audience doesn’t get distracted by the water.” 

He nodded, wiping the beads of sweat on his forehead, and bracing himself to summon yet another stream from the pool. 

“Achilles’ fire appears more stable than it has been,” a quiet voice remarked. Patroclus turned to see Menelaus, standing just a little behind him, observing the stage with a thoughtful expression. 

“It’s better than nothing,” Odysseus agreed.  
“But Patroclus here does not have the training it requires to fully support a performance. Achilles will have to rely on his own judgment, to an extent.” 

“And whose fault is that?” Menelaus asked, quirking an eyebrow.  
Yet, his tone was more amused than accusatory, and he caught Patroclus’ eye. 

Odysseus rolled his eyes. Whether or not the troupe master regretted taking Patroclus out of training, he would never know. 

“I think Patroclus is doing remarkably well for someone with so little training. What was it, two years? Most levelers have five before they are even partnered up with a fire act.” 

Patroclus nodded at Menelaus. He couldn’t help a surge of warmth rushing to his face as he realized the man had been there, the night Odysseus had reprimanded him and cast him out of the troupe. 

Did Menelaus remember? He probably did. 

It had also been Menelaus who had prevented the worst of Odysseus’ wrath, he recalled. 

“I take it you will report on his improvement to Agamemnon?” Odysseus questioned, jerking his chin at Achilles, who was finishing up his dance on the stage. 

Menelaus pursed his lips, studying the dancer.  
“Of course I will. And don’t worry, Patroclus -” he winked, catching Patroclus off-guard.  
“I will be sure to credit you as well.”  
\---

“What was that?” Achilles demanded, as soon as he got off the stage. 

He glared at Patroclus, tearing off the outer layers of his costume and flinging it onto the floor.  
“You almost hit me! You _know_ I can’t get the flames going if I’m soaked to the bone!” 

“It’s _your_ job to avoid the water, Achilles,” Odysseus replied, sounding fed-up. 

“Or I’m working with a fucking amateur,” Achilles snapped. 

Patroclus shrugged. He _was_ an amateur. If only Odysseus and Achilles would remember that fact. 

“Would you stop complaining?” Odysseus rebuked, his patience seeming to have run out. 

He pointed at Patroclus. “ _He_ is here to stop you from hurting yourself, and the audience! For fuck’s sake, Achilles, your fire is not what it used to be and you know it.” 

That seemed to silence Achilles for a moment. He stared at Odysseus, a blank look crossing his face. 

“We have an opening night in two days. Agamemnon will be there. So I suggest you stop blaming everyone else and work on getting those lines precise.”

Odysseus stalked away, leaving Patroclus and Achilles alone together. 

He nearly felt a stab of sympathy, seeing Achilles lost for words like this. The dancer had been at the top of the hierarchy for years. What would become of him if his skills declined? 

Patroclus hadn’t truly believed Achilles was slipping, had thought the imperfections in his routine were merely temporary - after all, Achilles hadn’t exactly been the picture of discipline in recent years. 

But looking at him now, he realized even the best of the best were not untouchable. Perhaps Odysseus hadn’t taken Patroclus on because he really thought there was a chance of improving Achilles’ performance. 

Perhaps it was simply a way of preserving the last moments of an art that was threatening to fade.


	8. Chapter 8

It was the night before the big performance, the first time Achilles would take the stage since his blunder during the last show season. 

Patroclus sat on his bed, unable to sleep. He’d been thinking about the performance the entire day. What if he ruined things for Achilles? What if he made a mistake so severe that Odysseus kicked him out of the troupe again? Had it really been that bad, as a servant? 

He looked down at his hands, the hard calluses from years of labor. The blisters on his feet had just started to heal. He was wearing comfortable sleeping clothes that someone _else_ had laundered for him. He almost felt embarrassed every time one of the serving boys knocked on his door to hand him his meal. 

The light in the oil lamp was flickering next to his bed, and he found himself entranced by the movement. It reminded him of Achilles, and suddenly, he had a strong urge to see the painting again. 

He cracked open the floorboard he kept it in and pulled out the square of fabric. The colors were just as vibrant as they had been when he’d painted it. 

The boy, in the center of the stage, flames spiraling from his fingertips. If he moved the painting this way and that, it was like the boy moved as well. 

He wondered if Achilles was still that boy, deep down inside. The way he’d danced, his fire like a mark of freedom. There was no way something that beautiful could endure in captivity. Perhaps it was why it never lasted long.  
Achilles’ art, stumbling over the edge, because it could no longer withstand the entrapment. 

The door opened, and a second later he felt Antilochus’ weight on the bed next to him. His friend’s hair was disheveled, dark circles under his eyes. He’d never seen Antilochus look so drained. How Antilochus hated the dome. The Sparrows were more successful than ever, but with that success came a price. 

“Worried about tomorrow?” Antilochus asked, reaching over and grabbing Patroclus’ ankle, the touch tickling him and making him laugh. 

Antilochus glanced down at the painting Patroclus held against his chest.  
“Haven’t seen that in a long time.” 

He scooted closer and looked at it, dark eyes shining as he examined each minute detail.  
“Do you think he wants to be remembered that way?” 

Patroclus caught Antilochus’ gaze. He hadn’t really thought about it. Achilles didn’t know he’d seen him perform once. Would never know, considering the limits of their interactions in the arena. 

“Don’t we all?” Antilochus stroked the edge of the painting. 

His mouth had turned down into a frown, and Patroclus reached out and thumbed at it, watching the lip curl up into a smile. A sad Antilochus was the last thing he wanted to see. He would give anything to turn it around. 

“When I imagined performing for the world, I saw us high up in the sky. Flying free, our wings catching the wind with the clouds behind us. I thought … you could see it one day. But -” 

Antilochus closed his eyes and rubbed at the lids. 

“I don’t even want you to see our performances anymore, Patroclus. In that horrid dome, those dreadful machines blasting air at us. It’s like a fucking caricature of what we could have been. It’s - I’m ashamed of it.” 

He patted Antilochus’ hand. It was not in the Sparrows’ control; the days of flight groups roaming the skies were long past. But he knew what Antilochus meant. 

He got out his scrap fabric and drew the cistern at the back of the house in Polis Mater. Waved it at Antilochus, to catch his attention. 

It made the other smile, that childhood memory coming back to them. 

“Phoinix didn’t let me have dinner that night, you know,” Antilochus said.  
“Because of something _you_ did.” 

Patroclus laughed, sketching the platform and the distant figures in the sky. Antilochus watched him pensively. 

“Is that why you did what you did?” he asked.  
“That day, when you showed me your art.”

Patroclus nodded. He pointed at the picture of the Sparrows. Pointed at Antilochus, and then himself, drawing an invisible line between them.  
The line that had connected them from the first. 

Antilochus got a look on his face, then, his smile fading, but not from unhappiness.  
“I should have known,” he said. He squeezed Patroclus’ hand. 

“Antilochus!” Loud footsteps outside.  
“You in here?” 

They both got up and went to the door. 

“Oh, there you are.” It was Eurypylus, who had become the leader of the Sparrows not too long ago.  
“We have another rehearsal soon. Better get ready.” 

Antilochus groaned. 

Eurypylus frowned at him, then at Patroclus. His head moved from side to side as he studied them both.  
“What _were_ you doing in there?” 

Antilochus shrugged. “Talking. What else?”

Eurypylus stared at him for a moment. Then he leaned close, glancing around them quickly to make sure no one was around to listen in.  
“Is there something wrong with your head?” he whispered. 

Antilochus and Patroclus exchanged a puzzled glance. 

“You can’t be alone together like this,” Eurypylus continued. 

“People might start getting _ideas_.”

They took this in for a moment. Then Antilochus started to laugh, and Patroclus couldn’t help but join in. 

Eurypylus glared at them both.  
“Especially since _Patroclus_ happens to have a benefactor.” 

This made Antilochus stop, his face turning a shade paler. His expression sobered, locking gazes with Eurypylus for a moment. 

“He doesn’t belong to anyone,” he gritted out, grudgingly. 

“Tell that to Odysseus,” Eurypylus replied evenly. 

His expression softened, then, and he clapped Antilochus on the shoulder. 

“We don’t want another incident like Little Ajax to happen again.”

They didn’t need an explanation of what he meant. The event was still fresh in their minds. 

Antilochus threw Patroclus a regretful look, then followed Eurypylus down the hall. 

He felt his heart sinking a little as he watched their retreating figures.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had been called to Achilles’ room rather abruptly.  
“Close the door!” Odysseus hissed, when he stood in the doorway gaping at the scene before him. He hastily turned and shut it. 

“Can’t have rumors getting out before the show.” 

Achilles was lying on his side, covered in sweat and shivering. He was mostly awake, but Patroclus could see it was a struggle for him. He motioned at Achilles, wanting to ask Odysseus what was going on. 

“He’s got delirium,” the troupe master explained.  
“Happens when you expend your abilities. The rehearsals … they might have been too much for him.” 

His expression was dark as he said it, but Patroclus couldn’t tell if there was regret in his tone. 

Achilles had overworked himself, and the effects were finally taking their toll on him. Patroclus wrung his hands, unsure what to do. Levelers were taught to replenish the wasted energy, could balance out the heat that took hold of the performer’s body … but he had never reached that part of his training. 

“I thought … perhaps if I coach you?” 

He looked at Odysseus, and nodded, going over to kneel by Achilles’ bedside.  
He had heard of delirium only in passing. It was usually a sign that a performer had reached their limits, before the inevitable drop in their ability to use their art. It didn’t look good for Achilles at all. 

The timing couldn’t have been worse. The show had already sold out, Odysseus doing his best to ensure Achilles’ image stayed intact. 

“This might seem counterproductive, but …” Odysseus brought over a bowl of clean water and placed it next to the bed.  
“You will have to submerge him.” 

Patroclus did a double take. _Drown_ Achilles? Drown him in his bed? Odysseus’ expression did not change, so he took a deep breath, willing his thoughts to quiet down as he drew the water from its bowl. 

He watched as each droplet slowly ran in a line, crawling over the covers and the sheets, not soaking through the fabric at all. He closed his eyes and urged them on. Somehow, controlling the water in an enclosed space like this was even harder. It required more precision, and the water was not inclined to submit. 

He guided each rivulet past Achilles’ torso, over his chest, willing the line not to break. His hands were shaking as he did so, and he could already feel the headache forming behind his eyes. 

“Good,” Odysseus remarked.  
“Keep going. Can you hear the rush of his blood?” 

He paused, leaning down and struggling to ignore the ambient noise in the room. Even with it being very quiet, it was not quite the same as listening to the sounds of nature. 

All those years ago, and his mother had taught him something of the world around him. But from one person? He bit his lip and concentrated hard. 

“His body is made up of water, just like yours, and mine. Listen for it.”

He could feel it more than he could hear it. Achilles’ blood, engulfed in heat, his body temperature having risen so high that he couldn’t feel it anymore. 

He guided the water closer, feeling it slide over Achilles’ skin. 

He felt it enter the bloodstream, flowing beneath the veins, chasing the heat away. 

And then Achilles started to choke, streams of water running through his nose and mouth. 

“Stop, stop,” Odysseus said. 

He stopped, panting hard. The thing about using his art was that he never realized how worn out he was until it was over. It was all too easy to do too much, and he could see why Achilles had gotten sick. 

“Do it over again,” Odysseus ordered. 

He hesitated. They were nowhere near the arena. Most performers replenished themselves directly after a performance, but Achilles had not wanted him near. By doing this, they were deliberately breaking their most sacred rule. They did not practice outside the arena. 

“We’ll keep this between us,” Odysseus added, as though guessing at his thoughts.  
\---------

It was mid-morning by the time Achilles’ delirium waned, the heat in his body lowering to a normal temperature. 

Patroclus lay on the floor next to the bed, exhausted. 

“You did well,” Odysseus said. 

“Better get some sleep and something to eat. The show goes on, after all.” 

He got up and left the room, seemingly satisfied that his plans had not been disturbed. 

Patroclus could have passed out, thinking of the energy he would need to endure a performance. Hours of coaxing Achilles out of his condition, and he felt like he had taken a thorough beating. Everything _hurt_. His chest, his stomach, and his head rang like someone had unscrewed his skull and replaced it. 

He glanced to the side. He met Achilles’ eyes, which were wide open and staring back at him. 

Achilles was still looking pale, but his mouth twisted in a small, cynical smirk. 

They looked at each other for a while, a moment of shared understanding passing between them. 

The show would go on. And they had no choice but to dance to the whims of others. 

It was perhaps the first time that he felt on level ground with Achilles. It might have taken a rocking of the waves, for him to see that they were in the same boat. 

Would the boat sink? He didn’t know.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The amphitheater was packed to the very last seat. He hadn’t seen a crowd this large in his life. Loud chatter, half-hearted clapping at the opening acts.  
There was a pair of fire wielders on the stage. Their act was relatively simple, producing globes of fire and tossing them to each other, increasing in speed until it was a blur of orange flames across the stage. These sorts of performances were usually reserved for the start of the show, to get the audience warmed up. 

It was hot and stuffy in his little alcove behind the stage. He had a good view of the stage, and the audience, but none of them would be able to see him.  
He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes for a minute, letting the darkness wash over him. Odysseus had given him two clumps of wax to stuff into his ears. It would help with his concentration, the troupe master had said, drowning out the sounds of the crowd. 

Underneath the stage were the pools of water, and he flexed his fingers, imagining them rippling under his fingertips. He fought down a wave of nausea as it happened. He had tried to sleep, and eaten a small meal before the show, but he still felt like a husk - hollow and drained. He hoped Achilles was feeling much better, because he had no idea if the water would obey him when he was so weak. 

He had never been able to stop the feeling that he was skimming the surface of something much deeper. That day at the river, when he was a child … this was not how it had been.  
The water had been his friend, then. Now … he was trying to pull at something that was not meant to change shape. He was trying to balance the fire, but what if the fire defeated him? 

He reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved the painting he kept at his chest. Holding on to a memory, to a feeling. 

The rush of exhilaration as he’d realized what it was he was seeing. Him and Teucer, their arms around each other, a moment of connection in a strange city. 

He pictured Achilles in all his grace, each leap landing perfectly to the beat of the drum. He pictured that performance brought to life again, on this night. 

It would have to do, he thought. 

If there was anything that would give him the strength to make it happen, it was the wide-eyed wonder of a boy he had forgotten as the years had beaten down on him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------

Achilles took his place on the stage, and the cheers soared to the top of the amphitheater, ringing out to the open air beyond.  
Fame was short-lived.  
But if there was one person who knew how to live it, it was Achilles. There had never been anyone like him, in the history of Polis Thugater. 

Patroclus thought of this as he summoned the first swirl of water, making it glide unnoticed over the edges of the stage, surrounding Achilles in a cool current. He could already feel the change in the air, how the heat displaced itself more evenly, keeping the stage separated from the vulnerable front seats. He could see the moisture creep up over Achilles’ form as well, a suit of protection against the dancer’s own flames. 

One by one, like paint saturating the silk. If he closed his eyes, and pictured the colors spreading, he could sense the water following his thoughts. 

_There is no singular way to control water_ , Odysseus had said. It was like a maze in his mind, trying to find new ways to surpass the walls every time he hit a dead end. 

He imagined himself deep underwater, the light playing across the surface from above. He imagined Achilles with him, movements slow and elegant against the blue of the waves. 

This was how he could help him, he thought. 

There was no point trying to control water in the way he had been taught. He had to find his own path, or risk losing control of the performance and letting down his partner. 

Distant applause sounded out in the background, and he let them be washed away. 

He didn’t have to open his eyes to know the dance was going well - he could always feel when he made a mistake. 

The drums seemed to match his own pulse, and as the water touched the floor of the stage, he could make out the sound of Achilles’ feet landing on each beat. 

It was perfect, he knew. 

They had done it.  
\--------------------

Ajax found him slumped unconscious in the alcove when the dance was over. 

“Come on.” The bigger man shook him awake, splashing some cold water on his cheeks from a flask. 

He cracked open his eyes, vision swimming as he took in Ajax’s silhouette. He made a sound, a soft grunt. 

“Here. Drink some.” Ajax handed him the flask. 

His hands shook as he received it. The coolness against his lips was heaven-sent, a balm against the starkness of dry air. 

He poured some into his palms and splashed it onto his eyelids, feeling his headache ebb a little at the sensation. 

“You really outdid yourself, didn’t you? Both of you.” Ajax pursed his lips and glanced at the stage. 

“They will be talking about this performance for weeks. Nobody thought Achilles had it in him anymore.” 

His spirit lifted at the news. So it _had_ been a success. 

He could only smile, as Ajax grunted at him and helped him get up. 

They went past the angling crowds, eager spectators trying to catch a last glimpse of the performers before the stage was emptied. 

Ajax found a carriage and pushed him onto the seat. They just managed to get ahead of the masses on the way out of the amphitheater.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------

Odysseus was throwing another party to celebrate the show’s success. It was the first time he had been to one as a guest, not a server. He tried to enjoy it, but the seat felt too hard beneath him, and every time he turned his head too fast, white dots entered his vision. 

“Are you alright, Patroclus?” A concerned voice at his side. 

He glanced at Menelaus. It had been strange to sit so close to the man. _His benefactor_. 

Across the way, Achilles was next to Agamemnon, pouring him drinks and exchanging banter. 

He glanced at the teapot in front of him, and at Menelaus’ cup. He mentally slapped himself. It was _his_ responsibility to ensure his patron was well taken care of. He hadn’t even stopped to think of it. 

Menelaus caught his apologetic look and smiled.  
“Don’t worry about me. I am _quite_ capable of pouring myself tea, thank you very much.” 

He returned the man’s smile reluctantly. He still didn’t know what to think of Menelaus. Up close, he could see there were crows’ feet at the edges of the man’s eyes; a person who smiled a lot. He wasn’t quite so young as Patroclus had initially thought, but he was definitely younger than his brother, and dressed more casually, his relaxed mood only adding to his good looks. 

Patroclus took his own cup and sipped at it. His stomach immediately lurched, and he had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound of pain. He waited for Menelaus to get distracted by other conversations, before getting up from his chair and making for the exit. 

He was halfway down the hallway when he found an empty bucket and fell to his knees, heaving. 

His mouth was filled with a coppery taste, and when he looked down, splatters of red had landed in the bucket. His throat ached. His stomach felt like it had shrunk and shrivelled inside him, a tight ball of pain. 

He couldn’t keep his eyes from tearing up as his body was wracked with heave after heave, an invisible force pushing the blood from inside him. He was like a limp doll, bent over the bucket, bloody spit leaking from the corners of his mouth. 

A shadow fell over him, and he cringed. He hadn’t meant to collapse in a place where he could be seen, but mercy, he didn’t have the strength to get up now. 

“Here.” A cool hand on the back of his neck, and a voice he recognized well enough. 

He shrank back, but Achilles was already kneeling next to him, holding him up and keeping him from falling against the bucket. 

“Try to stand up.” 

If anything, it was Achilles’ no-nonsense tone that spurred his knees into action, wobbly as they were. He groaned a little as he stood, shaking like a leaf. Achilles grabbed one of his arms and led him away, into a side room. 

The dancer’s face was stern as he made Patroclus sit with his head between his knees. They waited for the dizziness to pass. 

“Take this.” Achilles held out his hand, a dark pill in the shape of an olive nestled in the palm.  
“It will stop the blood.” 

Patroclus frowned. He looked up at Achilles. Why was he helping him, anyway? 

Achilles met his gaze, seeing the distrust in his eyes. 

“You will have to get through the night, whether you like it or not. It is expected of you. I am only saving you from the humiliation. You could say we would be even, then.”

He took the pill, reluctantly, and swallowed it, wincing at the feeling of it going down his throat. 

They sat for a while, as his breathing steadied. 

“Word of advice,” Achilles said, as he rose and turned to go. 

“Don’t ever let them see how damaged you really are.”

He lifted his head to see the other man’s face, but Achilles had already left. 

They were even, as Achilles had said. 

But some part of him wondered why Achilles had gone after him in the first place.

Were small kindnesses still present in their world? He thought of this, patting his chest where the painting lay safe, getting up and taking a deep breath before he rejoined the festivities.


	9. Chapter 9

The clink of glasses filled the room, the sounds of chatter. He felt his shoulders tensing and relaxing every time another waft of smoke blew past. Could one get drunk off the smell of tobacco?   
It was so thick in the air, the outlines of people seemed to blur in the bright yellow light. 

His stomach had settled, leaving a dull ache right in the middle. He gingerly sipped at his tea, only half-listening to the conversations around him.   
Achilles had not given him a second glance since their moment alone, and he kept his eyes averted. 

“Well, I think I will call it a night,” Menelaus announced from beside him. The other man pushed back his chair and stood, giving Patroclus a small smile before nodding at Odysseus.   
“Another splendid celebration, friend. I look forward to Achilles’ future performances.” 

He left as quietly as he had arrived. This was odd for a patron, Patroclus realized. Most of them preferred to be fawned over by the performers and staff from beginning to end. This man seemed to march to the beat of his own drum. 

Odysseus cleared his throat loudly, shooting Patroclus a look. A second later, his foot met Patroclus’ shin in a sharp kick. 

Patroclus looked up at the troupe master, startled. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Odysseus hissed from the side of his mouth, eyes flicking back and forth to make sure no one else noticed their exchange. 

Patroclus could do nothing but stare at Odysseus. What did he want? 

“ _Go to him_.” 

Odysseus’ look of irritation only grew as each second passed, but it didn’t make Patroclus get up from his seat. His body seemed to be stuck where it was, perhaps a little shaky from the aftermath of being sick. His gaze was locked with Odysseus’, and he could see it churning. 

Those dark eyes glittering below the surface, like the sea at night. Who knew what creatures lay in the depths? 

He stood up, steadying himself against the back of the chair. His feet felt like stone weights underneath him. A world away from the guesthouse, and its many visitors. It seemed nothing could take him away from that fate; even when they put a shiny veil over it and called it something else. It was perhaps the first time he thought of Achilles’ cynical smiles, recognized the bitterness underneath - and understood it.   
\---

He found Menelaus’ room in a separate wing of the lodge, reserved for the most esteemed patrons of the troupe. The space was so large it could have been a house by itself - it had its own terrace and garden outside, the scent of plum blossoms permeating the air on his path into the room. 

Menelaus looked surprised to see him when he knocked on the door. 

“You’re still up? I would have thought you needed rest after the show.”   
The man held the door open for Patroclus to come in. 

Inside, the walls were dimly lit, the soft light soothing his tired eyes. There was a large desk next to the bed, overflowing with books and papers. Some had even fallen onto the bed, so there was hardly any space to sleep. 

He peered down at them, realizing that Menelaus really hadn’t been expecting company at all. 

“Work. Never ends, does it?” Menelaus remarked, smiling abashedly at the mess. 

“Here.” He pulled out a chair for Patroclus, having to move a pile of scrolls out of the way. 

_What kind of work did he do_? Patroclus wanted to ask. In fact, what did patrons of troupes do in the first place? Were their entire careers centered around the troupe’s success? He fumbled in his pockets, looking for the scrap fabric and charcoal Antilochus had given him. He’d left it in his room, he remembered with disappointment. 

Menelaus was watching him, and he couldn’t help the tinge of embarrassment that rose up within. Troupe members had benefactors because they _earned_ them - through their own tireless efforts, night after night of nothing less than stellar performances. 

Once in a while, a patron would recognize these performances as the works of art they were - and take on the performer as their main investment. It was often the difference between a star like Achilles and the rest of the troupe. Menelaus had only taken Patroclus on because they had been desperate to salvage Achilles’ reputation.

He caught sight of some drawings in Menelaus’ scrolls, and couldn’t resist craning his neck to take a peek. Menelaus saw him looking. 

“Unfinished, I’m afraid. Nothing much to look at.” He handed one to Patroclus anyway, letting him unroll it until the drawing was straightened out for him to see. 

It was a rough sketch of the fire dance. Not Achilles himself, but a vague figure, made into a sort of diagram on the stage. Menelaus had circled and crossed out certain points on the paper.   
“I’m not the expert,” he confessed.   
“But I did pay close attention to what you did during the dance.”

Patroclus stared at it in bewilderment. The fire dance was not … whatever this was. It could not be studied, or mapped out. It was subject only to the whims of its performer. How could he make this clear to Menelaus? 

He looked at the man, wondering if he was quick to anger. If he was going to learn anything of his benefactor, best he do it sooner than later. He scanned the room, eventually finding a pen on Menelaus’ desk. 

Taking a breath, he took the pen and crossed out the whole drawing. 

Menelaus seemed taken aback. A second passed, and then another. 

Patroclus waited for the lips to purse, the eyes to narrow. He waited for the yelling to start. 

It didn’t happen. Menelaus simply crossed his arms and made a _hmm_ sound, eyes growing intent with interest. 

“It seems I’ve gotten it wrong, then.”

Patroclus shrugged. 

“I apologize. I’ve just - always been fascinated by people like you. How does it all work, you know?” 

It made him chuckle. How did it all work? It was like asking how thunder was loud. It didn’t matter how. The only thing that mattered was to listen. He pointed at his ear. 

“Keep my ears open?” Menelaus guessed. The man studied Patroclus for a moment. 

“I will.” He paused, lips moving as though unsure what to say. 

“It was always my brother who knew what to do, which troupes to invest in.”

He knew what that felt like. He’d spent most of his life in Odysseus’ household, and he had yet to uncover all of its secrets. 

“Think we can learn together?” Menelaus asked. 

It caught Patroclus off guard. He frowned at the other man. He was just an assistant for the troupe, not a real performer. It had taken all he had not to fumble during Achilles’ show. 

He pointed at himself, made a frustrated expression. He was no one. 

Menelaus lifted a shoulder. “I feel the same way.” 

It made him look at the other man twice. It was unheard of. Patrons were meant to be pleased, to be waited on. They were not the kind of people who tried to understand. 

What a strange man, he thought. His expression must have conveyed it, because Menelaus gave a quiet laugh. 

“Not what you expected?”

Not at all. But perhaps his future in the troupe didn’t look so bleak after all.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It must have been early morning when he woke with a start, the ink-dark sky from outside filtering through the room in shadow. He lifted a hand in front of his face and waited for his eyes to adjust, the outlines of his fingers becoming clear to him among the pitch black. Someone had covered him with a blanket. 

If he peered hard enough, he could make out Menelaus’ sleeping form on the bed next to him, not quite close enough to touch. He had stayed up with his benefactor the past few nights, listening to him talk about the performances. About his time in Polis Thugater. He must have drifted off at some point. 

He sat up, Odysseus’ insistent glare immediately flashing through his head. Somehow, he didn’t think Menelaus was going to complain about him to the troupe master. He scooted himself off the bed, tiptoeing carefully so he did not wake the other man. The sleep had done him some good. He found that he was wide awake now, the air cool on his skin as he slipped out of Menelaus’ quarters and made his way back to the upstairs wing. 

In his days as a servant, the hours just before sunrise had been a comfort, on nights when he couldn’t sleep. A few moments of rest, when the lodge was still and silent, before the demands of the day made themselves known to him. 

He thought of this, listening to his own footsteps against the floorboards, catching the movement of his own shadow in the corner of his eye. He could almost fool himself that it was just him, in a quiet corner of the world, where no one needed or wanted him for anything. 

Perhaps he had a chair, where he could sit and watch the sun rise. Perhaps there were trees, like the ones outside Menelaus’ room, and they swayed whenever the wind blew. Antilochus would come to visit, and they would stay that way for hours. Just the two of them in his own pocket of air. 

He let himself imagine it, every time he closed his eyes. If it became too much in the arena, when he could feel Odysseus’ dark eyes boring holes into his back - he had only to close his eyes for a second, remembering there was a place for him somewhere far away. Perhaps it only existed in his mind. 

But it existed; that was all that mattered.   
\---

The light was on in Achilles’ room, and he hesitated as he walked past. Did the dancer get restless at this time as well? His mother had once said that the small hours were an uncertain time, where the worlds of the natural and supernatural collided. It was why some people sleepwalked, or woke up from a bad dream. It was a time when the world around them was soft and awake, its curtains drawn apart to reveal whatever lay beneath. 

So many things she had said. He was beginning to forget, but there were times when her voice seemed to echo in his mind, as though it had been waiting for him to notice. He hadn’t thought of her in a long time. 

He realized it with a pang - the years had seen her fading away. He couldn’t really picture her face anymore, but when he tried, there was a stutter in his heartbeat like an old longing, an old love being brought out only to crumble at the edges if he tried to grasp it too tight. 

He’d had a mother once. No matter what Phoinix had told him, no matter how time worked against him; it was not something his heart could forget. 

He could hear voices in Achilles’ room, see the dark figures. They moved alongside the screen door like an act in shadowplay. As he moved closer, the voices grew louder, more urgent. He really didn’t mean to eavesdrop. When the door slid open, he stepped back, narrowly avoiding being seen. Out came Agamemnon, so tall and broad he took up the entire doorway. 

_How could the two be related_? he thought, thinking of Menelaus. 

He studied Agamemnon’s face, hard and stern, mouth clenched in displeasure. Not an easy man to please. Not a man you wanted to cross, either. 

For years Achilles had danced to his tune, every step, every turn, every movement on the stage for this man. Patroclus knew that now.   
He imagined every drop of sweat falling to the floor of the stage, the merest flicker of panic on Achilles’ face if he made a mistake - all the while, searching for those observant eyes amidst the crowd. 

The only spectator who mattered. 

Patroclus studied the man and wondered if this was the face of power. People like him and Achilles, Antilochus and Ajax - they could pull the reins on the forces of nature. But there were some men who could control something else; _people_. And that was perhaps the most dangerous of all. 

He was beginning to learn things, to see. There was some truth in what his mother had said after all - but it wasn’t the call of spirits, or demons, or the beings of the other side that revealed themselves in the quiet hours. It was another kind of truth, one that couldn’t stay hidden for long. 

If he had observed anything from the arena, it was that the performers were as man-made as the metal contraptions in the Sparrows’ dome. Groomed and polished to perfection, dancing on strings. Enough to forget that they were human. 

When the inner workings fell apart, they could be cast aside like any broken toy. And the thought pulled at him, clawed its way into his chest, even as Agamemnon’s retreating figure disappeared past the hallways. 

The light was still on in Achilles’ room, and he waited for it to blink out. 

It stayed on. He craned his neck, listening for any sounds of movement. There was nothing. 

Hesitantly, he stepped forward. After tonight, he had recognized that the divide between him and Achilles were much thinner than he had expected. That door that came between them, the room he had been forbidden to enter - they did not really exist. They had practiced at the same stage, for the same audience. And if that wasn’t a window into Achilles’ world, he didn’t know what was. 

Agamemnon had left the door partially open. He could make out Achilles seated on the floor, his back against the wall. 

At first, he thought the dancer had nodded off. But as he looked closer, the contents of the room were strewn about, several pieces of broken pottery at Achilles’ feet. He had never seen the room in such disarray before. But then, Achilles had never liked anyone to go inside. 

He was debating what he should do when Achilles caught sight of him. For a moment, their gazes aligned, and he could feel the heat rushing to his face. Even with all the time they had spent in the arena, there had never been an open acknowledgment of each other. They could hardly be called partners in anything but Achilles’ fire act. 

“Here to clean all this up?” Achilles asked, and the moment was over. He beckoned towards the mess, but his eyes never left Patroclus. 

“You can’t imagine how many times I’ve tried to tell Odysseus, but the man never listens. He does not see that you could never be more than a servant.” 

Achilles lifted a leg and kicked a broken pitcher in Patroclus’ direction. There was no force in it - the pitcher rolled over the floor, stopping at Patroclus’ feet. He bent down and picked it up, the remaining drops of wine wetting the tips of his fingers. 

Agamemnon’s pinched expression came back to him from a few minutes ago - how much had Achilles drunk? 

He walked over to Achilles and carefully picked up the broken shards, wrapping them in cloth and setting them aside. 

“Stick to what you know best, hmm?” Achilles did not look very different, but the feverish brightness in his eyes said otherwise. If Patroclus listened closely, he could hear the barest slurring in the words. 

He bent forward, wondering if he could help Achilles stand up, when the other man took hold of his arms, pressing their faces close together. 

He couldn’t help a light shudder as Achilles’ lips brushed against his ear. 

“ _I do not want you near my stage_.” 

He could smell the wine now, sweet on the breath, warm on his skin. Achilles’ hand was shaking badly where it held him. 

“You are Odysseus’ little pet now - but not for long, you see?” 

He swallowed, and forced himself to meet Achilles’ eyes. There had once been a time when the mere sight of the dancer had been enough to make him scurry away, wary of an encounter. 

Now he searched. There was a small part of him that could not hate Achilles, no matter how cutting the words were. 

“Poor, pretty, wordless farm boy,” Achilles continued, gazing at Patroclus as watchfully as the first day he had spoken to him. 

“There is a game I like to play, every time a new member of the troupe gains the master’s favor.” 

Patroclus tried to back away, but Achilles’ grip was strong, despite how inebriated he clearly was. 

“It is a waiting game,” Achilles whispered. 

“And I never lose.”

A few seconds of silence passed, and Patroclus thought back to the line of men who had paraded through this very room, each bringing a new name, a promise of wealth and power to the troupe. He thought of how slowly, over the years, the names had diminished until only one remained. And he thought of the words Achilles had heard, words of praise, of adoration; each blackening with disdain and disinterest as his glory days began to fade. 

In Patroclus’ eyes, Achilles was still a star, the first in the sky with all its points glittering against the blue. But when morning came, its time was over before it could be seen to the last. 

This time, the waiting game was for no one else but Achilles. 

Tentatively, he took the other man’s hand, quieting its tremor. His fingers wrapped around it and held it in his lap. What comfort could he bring to a soul so restless? 

Achilles’ expression began to dim, as they sat together in his cluttered room, seeing the truth of his own words on Patroclus’ face. 

“He called me a has-been,” he said, after a moment. He didn’t need to speak further for Patroclus to know who he was referring to. 

Achilles’ lips twitched, the beginning of a laugh. 

“He who sits and watches, who could never dream of calling fire to his will. Called me. A has-been.” 

Not if he had anything to do with it, he thought. Even if it meant more brutal nights in the alcove by the stage, feeling his insides struggling and hurting; he would do everything in his power to keep the fire dance alive. He had a knack for it. 

Hadn’t he done the very same, as a young boy seeing Achilles’ performance for the very first time? He rooted around in his shirt, where he had kept the neatly folded cloth against his chest. If there was anything he knew to do, it was to capture what he saw, to preserve it the way it was meant to be seen. 

Achilles had gone nearly his entire career without a leveler, but now that he had one - he _had_ to know Patroclus would take his responsibilities seriously. He got out his precious painting and laid it out across Achilles’ lap. 

The boy and the flames. A representation of a different time, a better time. But not a time that was lost just yet. 

Achilles studied the painting. His face was solemn. It was an expression Patroclus had never seen on him before, not cruel or mocking or cynical. He heard the other man release a short puff of air, nearly in disbelief. 

“That was me.” 

Patroclus nodded. 

“You were there that night.” 

Another nod.

“And how did a servant boy find his way into the arena?” There was Achilles’ usual arrogance again, but it was not biting. 

Patroclus pointed upwards, indicating the rafters where he and Teucer had sat together, jiggling their legs despite the threat of falling and breaking their necks. 

Achilles snorted, and the trace of a real smile found its way onto his face. The movement was slight, but his finger slid over the fabric of the painting, a soft touch on Patroclus’ painstaking brushstrokes. And his other hand squeezed Patroclus’ tight.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They practiced and they practiced. They practiced until they knew nothing else, the days filled with grueling effort, ending with tired feet and bodies swaying from exhaustion. 

He and Achilles had formed an understanding, so much that they could communicate through looks, Achilles’ gaze finding his from the stage, roving until it met him in his alcove. 

Odysseus was a merciless trainer, no flaw getting past him. The next show season was approaching, and there were rumors that he had no idea which direction the troupe was taking once Achilles reached the end of his career. 

For so many years, their troupe had enjoyed fame and fortune from the one performance everyone wanted to see. But it became an unspoken knowledge that Achilles’ days as a performer were becoming numbered. 

How beautifully he danced, in rehearsals, even out of them. Yet, his fire was growing too hard to control. It would either burn itself out, or he could wake up one day and find it gone. 

Without its primary foundation, Odysseus’ carefully constructed empire would tumble and fall.   
\---

Patroclus would wake up earlier than the others and take the troupe’s carriage to the arena where he could practice alone. There was too much pressure when Odysseus was around. He could never find a moment of peace, and when his mind did not settle, his abilities suffered. 

He was still only an adequate leveler, but a consistent one. He did what he could to balance the fire, but it was still Achilles who had the heavier weight to pull. At times, he would meditate by the water, imagining it rushing over him like a tidal wave over the shoreline. He didn’t know how the other levelers in his class had done it - they had controlled water like it was second nature, but he had to make a constant push of his will. 

He could not help thinking of the day at the river. It had not been a painful effort then. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing, until the look on his mother’s face made him freeze in place. 

There had always been something missing, while he had been training, even during the successful rehearsals he’d had with Achilles. He was doing it wrong. Some part of him knew it. 

When he was alone in the arena, with nobody telling him what to do, he could reach into that far side of his mind. He could bring back his childhood days, and how he had interacted with the water then, not knowing it was an art. He hoped it would give him the strength he needed to continue as Achilles’ leveler, even if he was doing it wrong. 

It was one of these days that he found himself caught up in the memory again. He never allowed himself to think of the silver fish. It was long gone, a symbol of dreams that were not his to pursue. But he could remember other things. And with the water as his conduit, he could bring them to life. 

He could conjure the riverbed, the shiny black stones that had distracted him so, as a child. They lay across the sandy floor, scattered in piles, one tumbling after another as the current grew stronger. The weeds waved in the distance like a grain field before harvest, slowly swaying, entangled amongst themselves. He was entangled too, so immersed he could hear the brush of their fronds against his skin, feel their leaf-like fingers pulling at his hair. 

And the light. Playing across the surface of the river, far above him. It was like a crystal globe, its many facets gleaming as the waves rolled, and he could hear the rush of them. 

He could almost hear his mother’s voice calling his name - what was it? 

He strained hard, trying to catch at the syllables, but they bounced off him and were swept away by the river. 

He’d had a name, once. A real one. One day he would learn it again, he thought. 

There was someone else’s voice now. He craned his neck to the side, listening. 

All at once he was no longer a boy with his mother. He was himself, sitting alone at the bottom of a river, and it couldn’t be real because he did not float, or struggle to breathe. 

He opened his eyes, and took in his surroundings, lamenting that it was all an illusion. 

As soon as the thought rose in his head, the river crawled away from him, the waves dying down and the light going out. It was as though it did not want him anymore, did not want someone who would not believe it. 

He reached out as the rocks scrambled away from him, the colors melting out of sight. It was like the end of a dream, except instead of waking up, he watched as it pulled it away from his mind. 

_Listen_ , his mother had said. _Listen, listen_. 

And he did, concentrating hard, willing the water to come back and rearrange itself, blending and mixing like one of his paintings.   
It was no use. The river was lost to him, and he would have to try again tomorrow. The last of the rocky riverbed fled away, the pebbles clattering. 

There was a clapping sound, echoing right in his ear. He frowned hard, wondering where it was coming from. 

And then he was back in the arena again, the floor hard under his folded legs. The sound did not stop, though it slowed, and became clearer as he shook off the last of his vision. 

_Someone was behind him_. He whirled around, immediately getting up, heart starting to beat fast at being caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. 

There was a woman there he had never seen before. She was still clapping, her hands smooth and elegant. Everything about her was smooth and elegant. 

He could only stand and gape, uncertainty and horror flashing through him. 

“What a wonderful act,” she said, and it was her voice that made him blink, the sudden realization that this was, in fact, happening. 

“I thought I was there with you, for a second.” 

Her smile deepened, as though letting him in on a secret. “But of course, I can see it is only a clever trick.” 

He shook his head quickly. Not a trick. He was not allowed. 

She could see his apprehension, and her expression softened. 

“Not to worry,” she said, stepping forward and patting his arm.

“I won’t tell.” 

It was not the last he saw of her, but it was certainly the only time he heard her speak. In later days, when she sat clapping in the front seat, he would remember this; the confiding tone of her voice, as she promised to keep it between them.   
\-----------------------------------------

He had never known whose hands held the dice. Perhaps it had been decided long before he was born - perhaps it simply changed like the way of the wind, carrying the Sparrows one direction and another. 

Many years ago, unknown hands had grabbed him from his bed in the middle of the night. Many years ago, he had been brought to a midnight rehearsal, a show he would never forget. And by a stroke of misfortune, he had missed the later part of his training, never to reach his full potential as a fire dancer’s assistant. 

It had been raining every day of the week. On the last day, Odysseus called him to his study. 

“We have received an offer of new patronage to our troupe,” the master announced. 

He stared hard at Patroclus, his black eyes drilling holes into the skin. 

“A great lord, from an outer city who has never visited Polis Thugater before.” 

_Did Odysseus ever blink_? Patroclus wondered. 

“His wife has requested a performance from our troupe’s most gifted illusionist. I will be most sorry to tell her that we do not have one.” 

Behind Odysseus, Menelaus was grinning. 

“Unless of course, you have a way to salvage the situation, Patroclus?” 

The lucky season, his mother had said, as the rain pattered against the rooftop. 

Like a game of chance, the dice flew across the board, and the numbers changed as quickly as they had been thrown.


	10. Chapter 10

The sound of Menelaus’ voice throughout the room was quiet and soothing, nearly enough to lull him to sleep. He found he could not contain his excitement even so - he _loved_ listening to the other man reading the news. They received a weekly serial, a ten-page long paper detailing all the performances in line for the show season. There were often recaps of the last season, and hearing those descriptions was almost as good as seeing the show for himself. _Almost_. 

After getting to know the man for several months, he had discovered that Menelaus hardly ever slept. They stayed up well past midnight, the lamp keeping the room warm and bright, and he listened to the week’s top stories. Sometimes there were mentions of famous guests, wealthy patrons from the best troupes, and he always held out hope that he would hear her name. 

He thought they could be friends. He had never made a friend outside the troupe before, outside the bounds of Odysseus’ household. But several times, he had gone to the arena for his rehearsals and caught a glimpse of her, often next to her powerful husband. They were not a couple who blended in. 

He had worked hard to perfect his act. It was almost complete - he and Menelaus had spent many sleepless nights bouncing off ideas for the routine. Then in the morning, still brushing the tiredness from his eyes, he would brace himself to meet Achilles in the arena. 

There was no telling what mood the dancer was going to be in that day. But if they had managed to work together before, there was no doubt that they could do it again. And again, and again. 

Odysseus had not allowed him to perform on his own, and rightfully so. He had not been born for the stage, did not have the experience like Achilles or Ajax did. Instead, he fumbled along, desperately trying to shake his old habits, remembering that the audience was there to see _him_ , and what he had to show them. He imagined Lady Andromache among the sea of faces, the look she had shared with him. 

_I won’t tell_. And certainly, she hadn’t. No one knew how Patroclus had been discovered, even though Odysseus must have had his suspicions.   
\---

On days like this, the stage was empty, the workers having left hours ago. He savored the quietness of the arena, but he was hardly alone. Looking to his left, he could see Achilles sitting cross-legged on the edge of the stage, little flicks of fire rippling from his fingertips as though he didn’t even realize they were there. 

If there was anything he knew about Achilles, it was that the other man was never anything less than serious about his performances. They had been rehearsing since the crack of dawn, and even now, the sweat dripping from their foreheads and down the backs of their necks, Achilles refused to stop. 

“Try that again,” Achilles murmured, brows drawn together in concentration. He hadn’t said a word about sharing the stage with Patroclus, though he couldn’t possibly have been happy about it. 

Over the weeks, Achilles had withdrawn further and further into himself. Every error he made with the fire was accompanied with a pained expression, only to be snuffed out and replaced with even harder efforts. He was struggling, Patroclus knew. But to admit it was to admit to the troupe that he no longer had value. And who could tell what would become of him then?

Noticing the lack of response, Achilles darted a quick look at Patroclus.   
“Try it _again_ ,” he insisted. 

Patroclus shook his head. He was too exhausted to continue. Relearning the ropes so he could perform was one thing, but creating an act that could complement Achilles’? 

If they succeeded, they would make history. Two different elements, performed on the same stage. It was the kind of ambition that had been the hallmark of Odysseus’ career, fizzling out as the years passed and performers were slowly wheedled out of his troupe. 

He could hear Achilles sigh, but the other man did not argue. His face was quite pale from overexertion. They would have to be careful, or he could catch delirium again. And then there would be no hope at all of meeting Odysseus’ expectations. Of meeting Menelaus’ expectations, and the lord and lady who were sponsoring this new act. 

So much was weighing on them, and Patroclus thought any moment now, the pressure would give and he would find himself collapsing with the rest of their shaky foundation. 

He had learned more about his own abilities in the past few months than he had in his entire life. On good days, when he had the energy to spare, he could create visuals that were a stunning parallel to Achilles’ fire. They didn’t know much about illusion acts at all, but he was constantly finding new ways, new ideas. 

His favorite of all was the horses and the ring of fire.   
It had come to him late one night, remembering an old story his mother had told him. He’d tried hard to explain it to Achilles, using sheet after sheet of scrap fabric, hastily sketching. 

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Achilles had asked, hands on his hips in a gesture of impatience. 

It had taken a long time to figure out, but eventually, he had told Achilles the story of the sun god, who circled the world every morning in his chariot of light. 

The horses outside the arena were nothing like what he imagined, tired and overworked; in his mind he saw great beasts emerging from the water, their manes flowing in streams of blue and grey and silver. Powerful hooves carried them swiftly through the air, never quite touching the ground. 

Every day he created some new detail, the individual hairs on their watery backs, the breath billowing from their snouts. The horses had to be perfect, he knew, for the audience to believe they were real. 

Hour after painstaking hour he and Achilles had worked on it, until they had perfected this one part of their act. 

“Reduced to a fucking circus act,” Achilles had complained, but he summoned the rings of fire without flaw. Every time the horses of water ran through untouched, it was a small victory for them. 

And now they struggled with the rest of the performance. Despite his declining abilities, Achilles was still the more powerful of the two, and Patroclus grappled with the sheer force of his flames. They were as tempestuous as Achilles himself, veering out of control when least expected. 

They had to be careful not to get too close to the front rows of seats. Sometimes it got out of hand and the edge of the stage would be burned to a crisp, while Patroclus struggled to put out the fire, steam rising throughout the arena until it was like a great boiling vat. 

How close they were to succeeding. But one wrong step, and the failure would be greater than any the troupe had seen. 

Odysseus perhaps did not hold out much hope that they would amount to anything. Patroclus had overheard the low-toned discussions with Menelaus when he passed by the master’s office; plans on what to do with the troupe if their fire and water act proved a disappointment. 

“We need something better than the horses and the sun,” Achilles gritted out, as he and Patroclus sat in the middle of the stage, trying to recover their energy. 

Patroclus lifted a shoulder, made a sound at Achilles. He wished right then he could have asked. What sort of stories did Achilles know? What had he turned to, in the early days of his fame when he had created those masterpieces the audience called a dance? 

Patroclus knew himself, knew what he could do to call the water to his will. They were not master and slave - the water did what it wanted; sometimes he could channel it, but other times it channeled him. He could craft visions of horses and bring the memory of his past to life, but other times he could only sit back and let the water reveal itself the way it wanted. 

He did this sometimes, his feet dangling off the stage and dipping into the pool located at the edge. When his toes touched the water, the reflection began to change. He knew Achilles watched, out of the corner of his eye. 

Sometimes it was the sky, turning from sunrise to sunset. The mountains outside the city, where the Sparrows had once hiked in order to practice their routine. The house in Polis Mater. All these things, thoughts that played at the back of Patroclus’ mind, that he didn’t know were there until he could see them brought to life in the pool’s reflection. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a blank sheet. Menelaus had taught him simple words, and the best part about hearing the weekly serial was when he craned his neck over the other man’s shoulder, eyes scanning the paragraphs, his chest giving a small flutter of excitement every time he recognized a word. 

He scribbled furiously, willing his hand to form the right letters. They were still such foreign symbols to him, and the ones he knew he kept close to his heart so as not to forget them. 

Achilles eyed him as he did this, but he had stopped feeling self-conscious under the other’s gaze. Perhaps they would never be kindred spirits, but he and Achilles were partners. The other man could gripe and criticize as much as he wanted, but there was a level of trust they maintained, in order to work together. 

When he was done, he showed Achilles the sign.

_YOU_ , it said, in his shaky charcoal handwriting. 

“What about me?” Achilles grumbled. He stared hard at Patroclus, at the written word, almost in disbelief but not willing to show it. 

Patroclus sighed. He wished he knew more. Communicating with Achilles was hard enough, even if the dancer surprisingly never interrupted him. 

He bent over the sheet and wrote again. 

_DANCE ?_

“Are you mocking me?” Achilles demanded, letting out an irritated huff and drawing his knees closer to his chest. 

A few minutes of silence, and he hung his head. 

“You _know_ the dance isn’t happening anymore. Nobody wants to see a washed-up version of what it used to be.” The words were bitter, and his eyes had that hard light which came up whenever his previous act was mentioned. 

Achilles tilted his head back and sighed. “Sometimes I hope we _do_ fail. Maybe _that_ will teach Odysseus.”   
He gave a little laugh. “And then he’ll sell you to be someone else’s leveler. And me -” he shrugged.   
“Who knows where I’ll end up.” 

It made Patroclus frown. He had assumed he would go back to serving the lodge, and Achilles a trainer for new performers who joined the troupe. 

“Odysseus is not a forgiving man,” Achilles added, seeing his bewilderment. 

Patroclus thought of the night he had been cast out of the troupe, and shuddered. Everything so far had been brought to him by luck. If he failed the troupe again, then perhaps it was his own fault. There was not a word he could have found to express this, but Achilles seemed to catch it in his expression. 

“Don’t you dare,” the other man said, with a quiet determination Patroclus had never heard from him before. 

He met Achilles’ gaze, wondering what it was the other man was trying to tell him. 

“Nobody asks to be a slave.”

The words might as well have been a burning rod, the way they scorched their way into Patroclus’ chest. Night after night, he had lain in bed wondering; but his mind had skipped around it, fashioned some other reality that he could bear with. To hear it said so plainly like this - he could scarcely believe it. 

Achilles was watching him, waiting for an objection. 

“Do you remember your name?” he asked, voice going soft. It was not a subject ever brought up, not among the kitchen boys Patroclus had grown up around, not even with Antilochus. He could almost hear his mother’s voice calling him in the distance, and was surprised to find he had to fight back tears. 

He came up empty, as always. He had forgotten. And with that, he had lost the essence of his identity. Suddenly, he wished Achilles would stop talking. 

“I used to remember mine,” Achilles went on. 

“I recited it every night before bed, like a prayer.” His lip turned up slightly at the memory. 

Patroclus was leaning forward before he realized it, imagining a young boy holding on to something far away. Didn’t that sound familiar? 

“It didn’t work, of course. When you hear them screaming for you in the arena - Achilles, Achilles,” Achilles muttered, the light in his eyes dimming. 

Patroclus had never stopped to think of their names. Each chosen so carelessly, yet they carried them for the rest of their lives. He thought of Achilles dancing on the stage, hearing the cheers erupting from the crowd. The chants of the name Odysseus had given him, enclosing around him in a snare. 

How he must have leapt with joy, feeling the warmth of the crowd, the adoration from his beautiful performance. Enough not to notice that the chains were fastened in place, that day by day he began to forget what it felt like without them. 

He felt sick, thinking about it. The reflections in the water faded away, until the pool had turned a murky grey. 

Achilles took a breath, and seemed to shake it off. 

“We’ve rested enough,” he stated, standing up and squaring his shoulders, expression closing off to show he meant business. 

“Your horses are too silent - that’s what’s missing, I’m sure of it.” 

And so they continued, but the revelation remained at the back of Patroclus’ mind for the rest of the day.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The performers had one day off in the year, what they called the Harvest Moon Festival. When Patroclus had been in his room at the top floor, he had gazed out at the full moon in the sky, listening to the sounds of the lodge below him. 

Sounds of excitement, performers shrieking at the tops of their voices, ordering servants about as they scrambled to find their best clothes. It was the only night they were allowed to roam the streets of Polis Thugater on their own, the only night when the festivities had nothing to do with fire or wind or water. 

Instead, there were long processions of musicians in the streets, parades featuring colorful costumes; street artistes dressed up as monsters and demons, the stuff of legends. The smaller theaters all over the city were open to the public, where crowds could file in to catch plays, puppet shows, and comedy acts. 

And all over, the banners and advertisements were covered with paper streamers, little flags waving to show the special festival foods being sold. It was one night they could forget, one night the troupe members were mere spectators, like everybody else. 

It was also the first night Patroclus ventured out of the lodge, unsupervised, no task to complete but to join in the celebration. 

“Isn’t this the best!” Antilochus yelled, giving Patroclus a hug and lifting him off his feet. Antilochus’ cheeks were pink, the heat from the buildings and the cold of the night air mixing together. He and Ajax had already had a few drinks, and it seemed to dissolve their natural dislike of one another. The two continued to chatter together, debating which event they should catch next. 

“There’s a parade in the main street. That’s the one we shouldn’t miss,” Ajax insisted. 

“There are these sticky sweets they make only this time of year, they sell out fast,” Antilochus replied. 

“How can you eat so much? I’m so full already,” Ajax complained. 

Patroclus was left shuffling his feet, waiting for the two to finish arguing. He could see how crowded the streets were getting, bodies pressed against one another like a can of fish, and the thought of getting lost without familiar faces around him was making him nervous. 

Menelaus had offered to take him to see the plays that showed in select theaters, but he had balked at missing the chance to spend the night with Antilochus. They had only seen each other in passing for the last few months, and he missed his friend dearly. 

He heard another pair of footsteps coming up alongside them, and started when he saw Achilles. He knew the performers _did_ spend time with one another outside the arena, but that had diminished as the troupe’s numbers dwindled. And Achilles had never seemed to like the rest of the troupe; even when he did hang around them in the past, he had always been noticeably apart from the group. 

“I hope our plans for tonight aren’t just to freeze on the sidewalk,” Achilles muttered. 

“Well, if Antilochus would stop fighting me on everything -” Ajax complained. 

“Oh, I know!” Antilochus exclaimed, cutting Ajax off and earning a glare.   
“Let’s go to Concubine’s Lane! It’s _so_ special.” He glanced at Patroclus as he said this, taking his arm.   
“The Sparrows went there for a celebration once, and I’ve always wanted to take you.” 

“A brothel?” Ajax snorted. “You _would_ , Antilochus.” 

Antilochus glared at him. “Did I say it was?” 

“Let’s just go,” Achilles interrupted, as the rest of the Sparrows gathered around them and began to question where they were headed. 

It was strange walking with the others, side by side like a group of friends. Patroclus had seen groups like this in the city, young men frequenting the pubs, stumbling into back alleys, laughing at each other’s antics. Sometimes they paid for a night at the guesthouse on a dare, hanging around the hostess’ counter, laughing and whispering as they egged each other on to hire a boy. 

Patroclus imagined himself as one of those young men, and couldn’t help snorting with laughter. Achilles heard and raised an eyebrow at him, but he was pulled away by the Sparrows before the other man could say anything.   
\---

Concubine’s Lane turned out not to be a brothel. It was located in a quieter part of the city, brightly lit and filled with the aroma of food from street vendors. When he glanced up, he saw that the street was adorned with hundreds of decorative umbrellas, in a multitude of colors, so that the lamplight shone blue and red and green over them. It had all the charms of Polis Thugater, but a certain warmth to it that the main street lacked. 

Families gathered around the food stalls, wandering in and out of shops. Children with happy faces, clutching their paper toys and sticks of caramelized fruit. He stopped and stared at a mother and her son, standing in the corner with a bag of candy in red wrappers. 

The Sparrows urged him along before he could keep looking at them, and they proceeded into the little underground theaters that the street was known for. 

It really was something special, he thought, finding Antilochus in the dark and trading a grin with him. The theater was cramped and stuffy, but there was an intimate atmosphere to it, huddled on the floor with everyone else in anticipation. 

There was a small stage with a blank linen screen. And as the curtains parted, he could see what it was.   
It was a shadow play, the props arranged behind the screen to form an intricate backdrop. The characters were dark figures moving along in rickety gestures, and he knew they were puppets. It was done so well the strings weren’t even visible. 

The first scene was the story of the harvest moon, which was customarily played at every theater. They all knew the tale - yet, the audience was still as they watched the shadowy figures on the screen, a kind of magic from the simple manipulation of light and dark. 

They were so intricate - every flick of the hand, the strands of hair on the characters’ heads - he sat entranced, unable to look away. 

It was when the screen turned bright, and the shadows grew larger, that he caught Achilles’ eye, an idea forming in his head. Perhaps they’d thought of it at the same time, or perhaps the other man had simply guessed at his thoughts. Light and dark, fire and water. He knew what could complete their act.

He thought he saw Achilles smile a little, but the moment passed, making way for the next scene. He didn’t know how long they sat there, the story going on. It was a fishing village now, farmers with their hats shielding them from the sun. He watched as the farmers worked the fields, scythes chopping at the long grains. The harvest. 

And then the thunder clapped, and though he knew it was only a prop, it rang into his ears, making him jump. 

_How determined he is to be heard_ , came a voice. His heart grew heavy, watching the floods coming into the fields, dark clouds hovering overhead. The farmers waded through the water and salvaged the grains. 

And if he concentrated hard enough, he could picture a little house on the edge of the village, the firewood too damp to light up. He thought of the candy in their red wrappers. _Crinkle crinkle crinkle_. 

A tear crept up, and he blinked it away. The curtains closed, everyone around him erupting into applause, sudden and jarring, waking him from his thoughts. 

It was all too real, brought back to him with a blank screen and simple puppetry. His chest felt too tight, and he found himself standing up before the others, eyes searching for a way to escape. 

“Wasn’t that brilliant!” one of the Sparrows announced. “What next?” 

As the night wore on, he trailed after them, the festive mood far off in the distance, unable to reach him.   
\---

The sky had turned grey-blue, the last stars still visible above them. They had gone to the pubs, Ajax and the Sparrows ordering drink after drink. They’d split up shortly after, half of them going to watch the last parade of the night. 

It was a wonder nobody had been kicked out of the pub. The owner was slumped over the counter with the rest of them, and it would be a while before the other customers would be awake enough to leave. 

He rubbed at his eyes, the chill air outside making him alert despite the lack of sleep. He shook Antilochus’ shoulder, but his friend did not stir. He shrugged. It looked like he would have to find his way back alone. 

He stepped out of the pub, drawing his coat closer around himself. He’d been given new clothes since becoming a performer, and the fabric sat heavy on his skin, keeping out the worst of the cold. 

The streets were deserted. He made his way through Concubine’s Lane, marveling at how quickly the food vendors had closed their stalls. The shops were shut down, and even the umbrellas up above seemed muted in color. 

A slight fog had crept up through the roads, and he had to shield his eyes to see through it. He wasn’t the best with directions, turning this way and that to find a street he recognized on his trip back to the lodge. 

He had been walking for nearly an hour when he realized he had reached the red gates. The divide between Polis Thugater and Polis Mater. He hadn’t seen Phoinix for years. He wondered if the old caretaker ever thought about him, ever lamented that there was no one there to paint the silks. There was probably someone else in his place now, he figured. 

He stood staring at the gates for a while, remembering the confused excitement he had felt when Phoinix had given him his token. His very first time entering the city. Try as he might, he could not conjure that same excitement now. 

He was about to go, but his feet carried him over to the gates instead. Just one look, perhaps. If there was nobody guarding them, he could slip out and get a glimpse of Polis Mater. Would it look any different? 

The gatekeeper was gone, so he pushed hard at the gates until they swung open. There was the road that Phoinix had taken him through, its familiar black gravel greeting him. 

Alright, he’d had a look. It was time to turn back. 

But his eyes were glued to the road, his feet refusing to move. 

So many chances he had missed. So many he’d let slip by. Would she remember him? Would she be angry that he hadn’t been able to reach her?

He’d endured the years, and all the while some place deep inside him had held on. He didn’t think he could ever find peace until he found it. 

So why wouldn’t his feet move? What was holding him back? And what if - what if she wasn’t there anymore? 

“It’s not easy, is it?” a voice sounded from behind him, making him jump and whirl around. 

Achilles stood in the middle of the road, a lone figure in the fog. 

He froze, searching the other man’s face for any trace of mockery, perhaps a quiet victory at catching someone he disliked about to make an error. Achilles simply looked at him, and waited. 

He made a noise, then, and it sounded terribly like the word he had been desperate to say. A word he hadn’t dared to think of for longer than he remembered. 

“It’s everything you fear coming to life. What if they don’t want you anymore? What if you’re making a terrible mistake?” Achilles shrugged, his tone remaining conversational. 

“But the gates are wide open. Do what you will with it.” 

He didn’t know what Achilles was saying to him. But he knew what he wanted to say. He scrambled for the word again, willing himself to speak it. His lips could form the sound, but it wouldn’t come out, no matter how hard he tried. 

Achilles seemed to understand, even so.

“I would go home too, if I had one,” he said, softly. 

He gave Patroclus another long look, and turned to go. 

It was when his figure was a small dot in the fog that Patroclus’ legs found their strength. Out he stepped, past the red gates, away from the city that had been his cage for so long. Trapped inside for long enough, he wouldn’t have noticed if the door had been left open. 

Whatever had transpired in the past few months had roused him. He could hardly believe it, walking swiftly through the streets, unguarded and unwatched. His heart started thumping, wild and unhinged in his chest. 

Polis Mater lay before him, only one city away from the open road, the dirt tracks that would lead him back to his village. 

He rounded the corners, looking around him to see if he could find the road out of the city. 

He must have searched for hours. The path twisted and turned, only growing more confusing the further he went. 

He had stopped in a neighborhood, exhausted and desperate, when he collapsed onto the pavement and sat there with his head in his hands. 

Why hadn’t he realized? He didn’t know which village it was. He wouldn’t be able to recognize it even if it was pointed out to him in a long line of villages by the sea. There were long stretches of road ahead, nothing but empty land.

Even if he ever found his way out of the city, he did not know the name of his hometown or how to get there. There wasn’t anyone he knew who did. 

It was with this thought that he sat on the pavement and sobbed. Whatever he had held so close to him, like the name Achilles had recited before bedtime; it was lost, for good. 

_Best you forget and accept it_ , Phoinix had once said. Perhaps it would have been best if he had.   
\-------------------------

It was dark by the time he reached the lodge, its high roof looming over him mockingly. He was prepared to accept whatever punishment Odysseus had for him for being out so long. 

When he got inside, the troupe was having dinner in the performers’ wing. It was a curious sight to see; they normally ate separately in their rooms. 

“Oh, there you are, Patroclus.” Ajax and Antilochus exchanged a look, as if they’d guessed there had been something wrong. 

“We thought you’d gotten lost in the city by yourself.”

“It can take a long time to get back,” Ajax muttered. 

Neither of them seemed to want to approach the matter further, and they continued eating in silence. He slipped into the seat beside Antilochus, accepting a plate. He had been lucky that Odysseus wasn’t around to notice. 

The heat rose to his face when he felt Achilles’ eyes on him across the way. How could he face him again, when the other man had let him go and kept it to himself? He had expected Achilles to stop him. For a second, he had even expected Achilles to run away himself. 

He had failed miserably at his chance to escape. And there was no one else to blame but himself. 

It was halfway through dinner when he was finally able to meet the other man’s eyes, his stomach shriveling with shame. What a stupid thing he had done.

The contempt he expected wasn’t there. Achilles looked back at him without a word, without a sneer, without the slightest trace of anything but resigned knowledge. 

It was a sad look, he thought. For a moment, standing there in front of the gates, they had understood each other perfectly.


	11. Chapter 11

“Of all the performances to miss,” Antilochus sighed, his face a mask of disappointment in the crack through the door. His fingers found Patroclus’ in the doorway and gave it a squeeze.   
“You’ll show them.” 

Patroclus could do nothing but nod, wishing for all the world that it could be like the old days, him and Antilochus huddled together, sharing secrets, their worries and cares the stuff of young minds. 

But he had a beautiful new room in the performers’ wing now, and though Antilochus had given it a look-around like he had with the old one, he’d only managed a sheepish smile, ducking out as quickly as he had arrived. Things were not the same.

Every day, they grew further apart, but whatever darting seconds he had were grasped tight against his chest. His hand would not let go of Antilochus’. How many things he wished he could have said. Perhaps it didn’t matter, because Antilochus had a knack for hearing him anyway.

“I’ll think of you when I fly today,” Antilochus said, the words of good luck and hope and encouragement, all the things needing to be heard, infused between the lines. He gave Patroclus his usual smile, one last grasp of the hand, and was on his way. 

He watched the retreating back, how tall and strong Antilochus had grown. The other man might have been called Sparrow, but had the grace and heart of a hawk, and all the years they’d spent together had unwound to reveal it. 

All those evenings he’d awaited his friend to fly home, had anticipated his chatter. Only now, they reached a split in the path. When he made his debut on the stage, he knew who he would be performing for; just as he’d once stood on a platform and marvelled at the figures in the sky.   
\---

The rehearsal before the big night was always the worst, he had heard. He lay on his back with one foot in the water, toes gliding patterns in the pool. Odysseus had commissioned a special structure built into the stage, so that the very center held enough water to sustain the entire show. 

Even Achilles had not been overly-strict with their routine today. They’d spent the last few weeks polishing up the finishing touches of their act, and at this point, it was either going to work or it wasn’t. 

Sometimes the musicians came in to practice alongside them, and he loved hearing it, but now it was quiet in the arena. The open-air top revealed the sky, and he looked for shapes in the clouds, blinking hard every time a stray beam of sunlight flashed into his eyes. 

He knew the water was reflecting the shapes and figures he found. _There’s a rabbit_ , he thought, and up they hopped from the water, vague shadows emerging, made of streams and droplets. He was still not very good at forming the shapes of creatures. It was events, echoes from the past that surged out of him, where he could find his center and create the visuals an illusionist was supposed to do. 

But the practice was good for him. His horses were magnificent, lurking in the depths of his mind, in the depths of the pool, pawing at their imaginary ground, the breath steaming from their nostrils. They waited their turn, to be shown to the world as they survived their ring of fire. 

He could hear Achilles next to him, the sizzle and hiss of crackling flames. It seemed to be a habit he hadn’t recognized before; idle movement, even at rest. They could never quite stop moving, never stop dreaming. Perhaps the practice of their art was simply an extension of themselves. There were many things he still didn’t understand; he could only know what it felt like. 

It was why it was impossible to explain to Menelaus, however much his benefactor wanted to learn the ways of the elements. 

_NO_ and _NOT_ ; were the words he had learned to write, over and over again until his benefactor sighed in resignation. How could a layperson understand? Whatever reason not everyone was born to wield wind or fire had not surfaced, not throughout the history of Polis Thugater. 

He glanced to the side and saw Achilles’ trademark, columns of fire spiraling from the stage, made miniature from his fingertips. Every time the other man touched the surface, a new column rose, twisting and writhing like a snake. 

Without thinking, he made his rabbit leap from the water, scattering droplets as it raced towards the fire and weaved through the columns. In the old legends there was a story of a hare and a tortoise, and he thought of it now, wondering if the creature could outrun the heat. 

Achilles’ mouth curved into a smirk, more columns emerging from the ground, barely missing the rabbit as it bounded across them in a zigzagged line. Every time it came too close to the fire, steam rose around it like a cloud, and the surface of its not-quite solid body bubbled. 

It somehow reminded him of the boiling pot of water in the kitchen, the cook yelling at him to get Achilles’ tea ready, and he looked up at the other man. 

Achilles could never quite be called happy. Not even in the arena, where he wielded his fire with a passion and focus rarely seen anywhere else. He certainly had a cruel streak, coupled with a restless anger that Patroclus suspected fueled his endurance in the arena. 

Achilles could have given up at this point. Not being able to dance anymore, giving up half his act to make way for a former assistant.   
But he didn’t.   
And right here, the spark of mischief playing across his features, Patroclus saw something of the boy Achilles might once have been, before the arena took it away. 

At last the rabbit reached the end of its race, having outrun the flames. The columns behind it disintegrated into smoke, and even those rose up into the air in black whirls, like the tips of candles that had been snuffed out. 

They watched it for a while, its translucent ears perked up for the slightest sound, before Patroclus let out a last breath and it melted away, a puddle rolling off the stage and back into the central pool. 

Achilles’ eyes never left where the rabbit had stood, glued to the spot as though he were still seeing it there. He glanced at Patroclus, at the stage around them, seeming to hesitate. 

“Show me what it looked like, that night,” he muttered, low enough that it would have escaped Patroclus if he hadn’t been paying attention. 

He frowned, wondering if he could possibly make it happen. His hand scratched at the painting he kept at his breast, lovingly created from memory. Now the water was his canvas, and he had only to close his eyes and listen for the sound of Teucer’s laughter, the cheers of the crowd making the air around him pulse. 

Already he felt the other boy grabbing his arm, a gasp of wonder.  
 _“I was wondering if he would be here tonight!”_

Below them, the ripples in the pool rearranged themselves, and the smallest smudge of a figure emerged across the surface. A boy, his body bending in a curve like a bow. The drums began to play, and over the beat the flames erupted, casting spirals and waves over the water. 

He could feel his own excitement, his nervousness that the fire would reach too close and scorch him. He could feel his fingers gripping the edge of the wooden beam, shaking underneath him every time Teucer rocked forward to watch the show more closely. 

Achilles was staring hard at the pool, an expression both wistful and intrigued crossing his features. At his sides, his hands wavered, as though forming the pattern of the fire by heart, barely able to hold back. 

Patroclus had an idea, then. He didn’t give himself time to think twice, and before he knew it, he had grabbed hold of Achilles’ hand, dragging him away towards the exit. 

“What are you doing?” Achilles exclaimed, but Patroclus ignored his protests, leading them out to the back road that took them into the quieter area of the main street. 

He didn’t stop until they had reached the old arena where he and Teucer had gone to watch the midnight rehearsal. It had long been abandoned in favor of the newer buildings Odysseus had commissioned. 

He felt Achilles go still next to him, head leaning back to examine the large building.   
“It’s been a while,” Achilles breathed, face serious, and Patroclus couldn’t tell if he was displeased at all.   
But Achilles made no move to pull his hand away, letting Patroclus lead him further inside, dodging past old props and going round the hidden hallways that led up to the rafters. 

They coughed and covered their mouths against the dust, eyes watering at the sheer thickness of it.   
“It’s _definitely_ been a while,” Achilles affirmed, yanking at a large cobweb that had gotten caught on his sleeve. 

They paused on the stairs several times, where the wood had rotted away, finding their step carefully. The second time Achilles slipped, he made an exasperated sound, tired of stumbling around in the dark. 

With a snap of his fingers, a single flame floated over his palm, bright orange and hovering uncertainly.

Patroclus stared. 

“What?” Achilles grumbled. “This is _technically_ an arena.” 

The flame grew brighter and began to circle them, as though it had a life of its own. It drew near Patroclus and bobbed about his shoulder, making him laugh in surprise, but never went close enough to hurt him.

“Over here,” Achilles snapped, a frown deepening his brow, but Patroclus could tell he wasn’t really upset. The flame refused to obey his order, floating ahead instead. Every now and then it whizzed back, as though making sure they were still following it. 

Patroclus couldn’t stop the growing excitement in his stomach. The light cast around them made their shadows dance along the wall by the stairs, and it made him think ever more of their act. Even if it failed and they were never allowed to perform it again, to see it once - his stomach gave a little rumble, the butterflies fluttering within. 

He turned back and grinned at Achilles, even though he never got more than a severe look and a nod. 

“ _That_ is where you watched the performance?” Achilles demanded, when they reached the top at last. The wooden beams were the only part of the arena that remained the same, and appeared as sturdy as before - though he really didn’t know how sturdy that was. 

He took Achilles’ arm and tugged at it, leading him over to where he and Teucer had sat. That third beam, over there, and his heart leapt a little, imagining what the boy would have said if he knew Achilles himself was up here, revisiting the most special night of their lives. Teucer would be his own age by now. 

He pictured the boy’s face in his mind. Another one who had been kind to him, who had offered friendship without a second thought. He had been luckier in his childhood. As strict as Phoinix had been, the old man had never meant any harm. In his own way, he had cared. 

What was his life now? He snuck a glance at Achilles, who had taken a seat on the rafters, legs dangling. The other man looked down at the stage below, which had long ago collapsed. The seats, which had been empty for years. He caught Patroclus’ eye and jerked his chin at the place next to him. 

How strange they were to each other, Patroclus thought, balancing on the wood and settling next to Achilles. The dancer was not Antilochus, or Teucer, not even Ajax. He was not Menelaus, who never had a bad thing to say. Yet sitting here with him, earlier impressions thrown aside, it was perfectly companionable. 

He thought of making friends with a wild animal, and pictured Achilles as a roaring lion, or a tiger. Perhaps even an eagle, swooping down to claw at his enemies. He couldn’t help a burst of laughter, then, imagining Achilles’ golden hair morphing into long whiskers, his nose turning into a beak, or the silk of his robe gleaming into individual feathers. It took away the tension, knowing he was not untouched by the ways of humor. 

Achilles shook his head, watching Patroclus laugh to himself. 

“It’s actually quite good,” he offered, indicating the scene below them. 

Patroclus blinked at him in confusion. 

Achilles reached over and tapped Patroclus’ chest. 

It made his face flush, realizing the other man was fully aware he kept the painting there. 

“You got the angle right,” Achilles added. He was quiet again as he surveyed the ruins below.   
“I never thought anyone would be watching from up here.”

Patroclus nodded, pointing at himself. 

“You can see it all,” Achilles said.   
“How far the fire actually reaches. It’s lost to the audience in the seats. No matter how perfect your routine is, there is always some small detail they miss. That’s what art is, unfortunately. We can show the world what we create, but for someone to see, to understand … it doesn’t always happen.” 

Patroclus drew his legs up and rested his chin on his knees, hoping Achilles would say more. Their act was different, he thought. It didn’t matter what the audience missed, because they had made it together. Him and Achilles. 

“It was a midnight rehearsal, wasn’t it?” Achilles asked, eyes brightening a little when Patroclus nodded enthusiastically. 

“Catch Odysseus letting us do that again,” he mumbled. His finger traced the dust on the wooden beam beneath them. 

“Greedy old fucker.” His words held no venom, but the look on his face showed leagues more than Patroclus had ever expected. 

Along those features was the trace of affection, of disappointment - and the barest hint of hatred, lurking behind the eyes. 

“I used to adore him, you know,” Achilles explained.   
“The troupe master who made me a star. He could make you feel like you were everything. He gave me this toy soldier - it went like clockwork.” Achilles mimed winding it up. 

“I brought it everywhere. Then one night … he introduced me to this important man. Someone who was looking for an investment in the troupe. They knew I would be famous even then.” Achilles paused, clamping his lips tight.

“You probably know who it was.” 

Patroclus nodded, already seeing the hulking figure, the looming silhouette of the troupe’s longtime patron. 

“It was the night after this,” Achilles went on, pointing at the stage. 

“The night Odysseus handed me over like a bag of useless goods. I begged him not to -” he frowned, hands clenching into fists in his lap. 

“We had a huge argument. He took my toy soldier and broke it in half. Funny the things you remember, hmm? That night, Agamemnon went into my room. And he fucked me so hard I needed stitches.” 

Patroclus’ breath hitched, a heavy stone settling in his stomach. 

“And all I can see when I think of that night, is my toy soldier lying broken in the corner. The one I loved because my troupe master had given it to me.”

Achilles smiled, then, sadly, and his eyes found Patroclus’. 

“Want to know what his name was?” 

The silence stretched between them. 

It couldn’t have been, Patroclus thought. He sifted through the memories flickering in his head. The very first time he had met Odysseus, in that study he was expressly forbidden to enter. That gaze that seemed to cut through him. 

_“Patroclus, don’t you think?”_ Thrown out as carelessly as a breeze, but Odysseus’ eyes had never lost their calculating gleam. The man had even recognized Patroclus’ art from the first. 

The star of the show had never accepted a leveler, had found his own ways to rebel against Odysseus throughout the years. All the glitz and glamor of the city had fallen away like a curtain from the stage, revealing the darkness beyond. 

But Odysseus was not a forgiving man. He had chosen Patroclus and brought him to Polis Thugater. All the while knowing the two would end up as partners on the stage, whether they liked it or not. 

No wonder Achilles had hated him on sight. 

Patroclus could not imagine the depth of cruelty it took, finding the name of lost childhood and dangling it within reach, a symbol of failed protection, of dreams that had been crushed. The ways Odysseus punished - they went further than what Patroclus had experienced. 

Any semblance of control they had over themselves was more illusion than the ones he crafted from water. He glanced down at the collapsed stage. 

Not this, he mused, thinking of Antilochus’ words from the past.   
_“We are artists. They can never take that away.”_

And it was true, in a way. Without them, there was no show. And what they had created, it was _theirs_.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Opening night. 

How his blood raced, if he placed his hand on his wrist he could feel it thrumming. They were made of water, and he could feel it all the way to his core. The butterflies had turned into hummingbirds, flittering about his stomach, unable to calm down even if he wrapped his arms around himself. 

Backstage, the lights were bright, the chatter of performers crowding the air. They painted their faces and powdered their hair, tweaked their costumes into place. All the while, he shuffled his feet, waiting for Achilles. He was too new to have a place of his own, a mirror to get ready. 

Someone shoved past him, a cart of beaded headdresses rattling along. He hoped he wouldn’t have to dress up in one of those. The costumes for the performances varied, but Achilles had always opted for sleek and elegant robes. He hoped he would be allowed the same. 

“Patroclus!” He whipped round at Menelaus’ voice, at once wondering why his benefactor wasn’t already seated. 

The other man took Patroclus’ arm and led him away, to what looked like an administration office in the back.

“I should have given you this before,” he started. “But there was no time.”

He opened the door, revealing a large wooden box atop the office desk. 

“Go on,” he said. “Better open it now, or you’ll have nothing to wear for the show.”   
His smile turned sheepish. “I got it on short notice. I’m sorry if it isn’t what you expected.” 

Patroclus barely heard him, lifting the box’s cover, hands coming to rest on the yards of silky material laid carefully inside. It was the wrong color, but he didn’t care. 

He was transfixed by the designs all across the back, down the sleeves, along the hem. They had been sewn in, so they stood out against the cream fabric. Different from his own designs so long ago. These must have taken weeks, the colors of the thread blending in together, so they shifted and shone under the light. He had never owned anything so beautiful. 

He looked at Menelaus, frowning a little. The show hadn’t even started yet. This was the kind of gift received after a major success. 

“I know,” Menelaus replied.   
“Let’s just say I’m thinking ahead, shall we?” He grinned, and left Patroclus alone to get dressed.

He felt a surge of happiness, handling the robe as though it would fall apart at any second. He pushed his arms through the sleeves and wrapped it around himself, marveling at the perfect fit and how it rested over his skin, cool and smooth. He wished Antilochus was here right now. 

Ajax was there when he emerged, and the other man gave a low whistle.   
“Not a servant boy anymore, huh?” 

It was almost their turn, and he could hear the audience the closer they got to the stage. It was surreally different from the time he had sat in his little alcove, his ears stuffed with wax. 

“Don’t fuck it up,” Ajax chimed, clapping Patroclus on the back. 

As the music from the previous act came to a halt, he nudged Patroclus forwards, the lights in the amphitheater starting to dim. 

He could make out Achilles on the other side of the stage, back straight and head held high. There was no breaking him out of his years as a dancer, judging from his posture. 

He waited for Achilles’ gaze to find his. They stared at each other across the way, and his heart beat even louder. Achilles’ lips never moved, but he knew the other was saying something to him. 

_This was it. This was theirs._

It was nearly pitch black as they took their positions on the stage, most of the audience cheering when they realized one of the performers was Achilles. He could feel curious stares on himself, the lights coming on, the musicians at the ready. 

The pool in the center of the stage was already moving, waves lapping as though it were an ocean. He steadied himself, took a few deep breaths for calm. 

Far below the surface, he could already hear the rush of hooves against soil, feel the shaking of the ground beneath him. 

The horses were waiting. And he had only to release them. 

There was a great murmur from the crowd as the first head emerged from the pool, the water rearranging itself to form the fine bristles of the horse’s mane. His stallions, born from dream and memory, his mother’s voice uttering the words of the story, playing again and again in his head. 

They now answered to him, to the voice in his head, every twitch of the tail and bend of the leg. He had crafted them so closely to his heart that they were as real to him as any other beast - and just like real life, they had their names. 

_Xanthus and Balios_ , he called, knowing they would hear him. _To me_. 

And out they galloped, to the amazement of the crowd, the water parting way to reveal their shining coats; one black as night and the other bright as day. 

Their manes stood tall like warhorses, but they were held back by neither rein nor whip. It was only when the light hit in certain places, that one could see the reflections playing across their forms - blue and grey and silver.   
Creatures of the mind, breathed to life by water. 

_To me_ , he kept calling, for it was only him they searched for. He moved around the stage, but the audience hardly noticed. There was a great silence as they watched the horses cantering, their hooves only slightly touching the surface of the stage.

Xanthus reared his head back and gave a loud bray; it echoed throughout the amphitheater, and that was when Achilles summoned his ring of fire. It appeared in the right hand corner of the stage, and Patroclus could feel their fear, seeing how bright and powerful it was. 

_To me, to me_ , he called, trying to sound as soothing as he could.   
They had become so real to him that they were no longer like machines or moving statues, cold and unfeeling. They could feel as any other living creature, and he had to coax them to move towards the flames, to gather their courage to leap through the fire. 

Seeing Xanthus moving ahead of him, Balios began to feel left out, and matched his speed to the other. His ears flicked the closer he got to the heat, but they were parallel now, a stunning pair racing towards the fire. 

_Now_! Patroclus exclaimed, and they leaped, right through the ring until they came out on the other side, untouched. 

The audience erupted into cheers, but they were not done. 

Slowly, the fire grew, until it had become a burning orb in the middle of the stage. 

Here was the tricky part. He was already starting to sweat heavily, and he could see Achilles was too. As the horses continued to run along the perimeter of the stage, the fire went along with them, held fast to their backs with harnesses of flame. 

They had to concentrate hard, making sure the water did not put out the fire, that the fire did not touch the water and turn it to steam. He could see a flicker of excitement in Achilles’ eyes as the horses pulled at the sun. Here was the legend, brought before their eyes. Hours of practice, and they were succeeding. 

There were gasps and shouts from the crowd as it became clear what the act was really about. Round and round the horses raced, their hooves pounding loud into a steady rhythm. 

And behind them, the sun god’s chariot, circling the world until its light touched each corner. 

It went on forever, he thought. Any moment and he would slump to the ground, the exhaustion catching up to him. But he kept his eyes on Achilles’ face, and it seemed to hold him together. 

Not a single person remained on their seat by the time Xanthus and Balios returned to their pool, their sun chariot fading away in a cloud of smoke. They waited for the applause to die down, before the second act began. 

The horses and the sun were a classic illusion act, beings called to the surface with fire or water. 

The one he and Achilles had set their hopes on, though - this was different. This would tell them if the world was ready to see what they had to offer. 

The lights began to dim, until the amphitheater was pitch black. He could hear sounds of confusion from the audience. How were they supposed to see anything that was going on? 

He and Achilles took their places at the center of the stage, and his legs buckled a little as he sat down. He closed his eyes, and the water swirled around them. It wasn’t the day at the river he thought of, not anymore.   
It was the Sparrows’ dome, up above them entrapping all that lay within. And the water followed the line of his thoughts, surrounding them until it had formed a wall, a veil between the stage and the crowd. 

The water was his canvas now. And as the first flame crept up from Achilles’ fingers, the light cast a long shadow against this canvas, a shadow that became a part of the water itself. He caught at it and molded it, so that what was originally a single shadow became a flock of figures, dark silhouettes against a backdrop of orange. 

It was Achilles’ fire that brightened the stage, not the lights from worn bulbs and their glaring whiteness. His was warm and low, setting a glow that reached the edges of the stage, not quite reaching the audience. It was as though they were alone together, the dome of water above them and the fire reflecting off its surface. 

He wished his ears were stuffed with wax again, because he could hear the whispers now, the audience realizing that the shadows forming against the water were little figures, bearing wings, sweeping across the sky from the mountaintops. 

It had been years since the Sparrows had flown free, but this was how he chose to portray them. The one at the end, the smallest boy with the fluttering arms - that was Antilochus. 

He smiled, seeing it, hearing the spectators clap as they recognized the scene. It was one that had brought so many people joy, and the first he had ever been exposed to in the world of Polis Thugater. 

The scene changed, and now it was an empty circle. Achilles’ light continued to cast shadows against the water, and he quickly molded them into shapes before they could reach the audience’s eyes. 

Now it was a boy, jumping and twirling all around the dome. He twisted and turned, movements accompanied by columns and spiraling patterns. 

The second performance he had ever seen. And one that he could not do justice, but he could sit here and craft it from the shadow of the very person who had danced. Achilles’ gaze followed the dancing boy, a kind of solemnity over him that only came out when faced with his past career. 

That night at Harvest Moon Festival, Patroclus had seen a life he recognized, shown so clearly at the shadow theater. The farmers and the fields, the rain and the floods. He had seen it, and he had mourned it, for it was a life he had never lived. 

Perhaps he had been dealt a different hand, but illusions could only be created from what was already true. Here on the stage, he would show the life he _did_ live, the years that had passed him and all he had discovered within. 

After all, water was only a reflection of the world around it. 

Achilles’ fire was all the light he had needed, and its shadow what he would use to reflect against the water - much like the paint in Phoinix’s silk room.   
Shadow theater was not just for festivals. Not anymore. 

He had just finished showing the scene of Big Ajax and Little Ajax, whatever he could have imagined it had been like. This type of illusion did not require as much energy, but it was still a challenge keeping the dome of water still and smooth, so that the silhouettes did not become marred as they were projected from the stage. 

When at last he allowed the water to slip away, for Achilles’ fire to extinguish itself, he felt they had achieved something special.   
The audience was quiet, still dazed from the spectacle they had been shown. 

Fire and water, light and dark. Somehow it had worked, creating scenes that moved like the puppets behind the screen. Only they could be more intricate, more real. And indeed, it had looked as though the performances had really been happening, the Sparrows and Achilles and the Ajaxes, separated only by a blank screen. 

Achilles found his hand and touched their fingertips together, the other man’s still warm from handling the fire so long. It was a brief second before the lights came on, and they were faced with the crowd, the music having died down. 

He searched the rows of seats until his eyes met a familiar pair. Hers were shining as she slowly smiled at him. 

And he knew it then. 

He didn’t get a chance to count the seconds until everyone was on their feet, Lady Andromache and her husband the first in the row to stand. The sound grew ever louder until it was a reverberating roar to the heavens, the walls of the amphitheater seeming to pulsate to contain its noise. 

His head was a cloud of fog as he looked at Achilles, looked at the beaming sea of faces. They had really done it. 

Something had caught in his throat, and he clutched at the painting at his breast, folded and tucked away safely. Perhaps he didn’t need it anymore, now that he had the real thing as his partner on the stage. 

But it was still a comfort to have it close by.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lodge was a bustle of activity when they got back, and he knew Odysseus was getting ready to throw another one of his famous parties. For once, he wished for anything but to attend. If only there was a moment where he could bask in the silence and relive what had happened. 

“You look magnificent,” came a voice, and he turned, seeing Antilochus in the doorway. 

His heart gave a little leap, and he ran at his friend, laughing as the other man caught him in a tight hug. 

His eyes stung as he buried his face in Antilochus’ shoulder. He wanted him to know so badly. 

“I heard,” Antilochus whispered, and he could hear the smile that came with it. 

“Mountains and sky.” 

If the Sparrows couldn’t have the freedom of the wind any longer, they would have it in what Patroclus chose to show on the stage. He would never portray them as anything less than the bird-men flying free against the clouds. 

It was his friend’s dream, even if the reality was so far away it could not be reached any longer. He had found a way to make it come true, even if it was just a show of light and shadow. 

He only wished Antilochus could have seen it for himself. 

“Something came in for you,” Antilochus said, releasing him and opening the door wider. 

The room was already crowded with bouquets of flowers and gifts from potential patrons, important spectators who had been impressed with the show and wanted to put their name in with the troupe. 

But behind Antilochus was not a bouquet or a sparkly ornament. It was a simple pot, that held a young tree. Its branches were just starting to grow, its leaves green and small. The blossoms had not come yet. 

But one day, they would bloom pink and white and purple, so beautiful there was none to compare. 

Antilochus helped him carry it into the garden below his room, and they planted it. Her gift to him, and the only one that mattered. She had asked to see him perform, and he had. 

Every morning, he looked outside his window, and the plum blossom tree grew taller than it had the day before. Looking at it, he knew that the friendships he had so longed for were taking root. Perhaps the world was harsh and cruel, but within it he could find the smallest hope, if he knew where to look.


	12. Chapter 12

The fireworks lasted all through the carriage ride back. They reflected off the windows, the sound like gunshots reverberating through the sky, as the red and gold flecks sprang at the corners of his vision. 

How he clutched at the edges of the seat, enraptured by the colors bursting across starless black sky. 

Gooseflesh over the skin, a cool shiver more pleasant in its giddiness than he expected. 

He could sense Menelaus nodding off next to him, the night before immediately coming to mind. 

His name in the weekly serial. Lying among paragraphs of inky black print, lying in wait. It was as though there’d been a pleasant surprise just for him, craning his neck over Menelaus’ shoulder so he could match the man’s voice to the words he knew. It had been on the front page, and he’d tapped each letter with the tip of his finger, touched every one in disbelief. 

“That’s you,” Menelaus had said, beaming and squeezing his shoulder. 

He hadn’t been able to do anything but nod, anything but think of how surreal it all was. 

_His name in the paper_. 

He’d burrowed under his covers late at night, realizing his face ached because there was a grin he hadn’t even realized was there. 

A particularly loud firework shot straight up, startling Menelaus awake. 

“Oh look,” the man mumbled sleepily, leaning across Patroclus to point it out in the sky. 

The lights had formed a pattern spanning wide from left to right, so that they had to squint out the window in order to catch the whole thing. It was a blue butterfly, the individual sparks making out the lines of its wings. It glittered so brightly the wings seemed to flutter on their own, and Patroclus found himself in love with the sight.

“That’s mine,” Menelaus explained, lifting his arm so Patroclus could see the cufflinks on his shirt, each carved with a blue butterfly. 

“You put in some coin and they’ll feature anything you want. Isn’t it a delight?” 

He couldn’t help smiling, thinking of the stage. It wasn’t so different from the fireworks display, but it was his, his and Achilles’. 

Night after night had blurred past, and somehow they had found themselves at the peak of the season. It had marked a brand new beginning for the troupe, when the dust of old was swept out the doorway in favor of whatever came next.  
\--------------------------------------

It was past midnight, yet the festivities carried on in the lodge. There had been a celebration every single night since the first show, and there were rumors that Odysseus planned to extend them even after the season ended. 

“I’m getting tired,” Menelaus said. He had been conversing with other guests the entire night, and Patroclus could see the slightest hint of weariness behind his usual friendly smile. 

He tapped Menelaus’ arm and pointed at the door, pulling him along even when the other man shook his head. 

“What would I do without you,” Menelaus chuckled. 

“I would never get away otherwise.” 

It was true. Menelaus had the sort of people skills his brother lacked, and was usually the one stuck with entertaining others in their social circle. Yet, Patroclus knew him well enough now to recognize that the man was happiest when on his own. 

They trudged through the halls companionably, the sounds of music and chatter drifting out of earshot. Patroclus thought the other man looked a little tense.

They had almost reached Menelaus’ room when they bumped right into Agamemnon and Achilles; the latter on his benefactor’s arm like a shining accessory. 

“You’re leaving?” Agamemnon glared down at Menelaus, his gaze every bit as intent as Patroclus remembered from past glimpses. 

“We’ve had our fair share. Haven’t we, Patroclus?” 

Patroclus wished Menelaus hadn’t mentioned him, because now he had the older brother’s full attention. Realizing it then, he had never stood face to face with Agamemnon before. 

Agamemnon said nothing, merely studying Patroclus as one might a mildly interesting wall. 

“Perhaps I should ask Odysseus to cancel the parties,” he remarked. “Clearly you are not having a good time -” 

“I’m having a perfectly fine time,” Menelaus interrupted, giving a wan smile and glancing at Patroclus, as though in affirmation. 

“Oh, leave them.” 

Patroclus had nearly forgotten Achilles was there, he had been standing so silently, pressed up against Agamemnon, like an extension of the other man. 

He looked up to see those eyes staring right at him, and in that second, it was as though he was being watched from behind a mask; so perfectly set in place that he couldn’t tell where the line between wood and warm skin was drawn. 

He could already feel something sinking inside him, faced with that empty stare; a hardness in the eyes that had seemed to crumble away in the moments of elation, of fear, of victory that they had shared every night on the stage together. 

He had thought - he had been stupid to think they could be anything to each other beyond the performance. Really, he had. 

“It must have been so overwhelming for a simple farm boy. Menelaus is being gracious enough to guide him along.” 

Achilles spoke serenely, ignoring the irritated look Agamemnon gave him for cutting in. 

“Don’t you think so?” 

“Hmph,” was all Agamemnon managed, already losing interest and turning from them. 

“Actually, Patroclus -” Menelaus started. 

“We wouldn’t want to interrupt your night.” Achilles’ smile never left his face, but there was something in his expression; a kind of urgency that made Patroclus grab Menelaus’ arm and lead him away.

He hesitated before looking back, wondering if perhaps Achilles _was_ looking out for him after all. He didn’t miss the way Agamemnon gripped Achilles’ wrist, strong hand tightening until the skin whitened, whispering furiously in the dancer’s ear as they retreated out of sight.  
\---

Menelaus had been too exhausted to read the serial for him, so he’d stayed up flipping through the other man’s drawings instead. Menelaus drew with such practicality, as though the stage and its performers were nothing more to him than specimens to be studied. Still, he liked the sketches, could appreciate them from one artist to another. 

His eyes were beginning to tear up when he realized the sun would be up soon, and Menelaus was already half-collapsed on the bed, chest rising and falling to the rhythm of sleep. 

Sometimes he fell asleep in here; but images of his own bed, warm and inviting, called to him, and he rose sluggishly, stumbling towards the door and out into the halls. 

There was no avoiding Achilles’ room on his way back to his own. They lived in the same wing now, after all, and his was at the very end of the corridor, where the only path outwards was the one that ran right by Achilles’ room. 

The lights were off, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

So many nights he had hovered outside, debating if he should go in, if the wild creature he had thought to befriend now awaited his hand; perhaps it would neither claw nor bare its teeth at him if he found the courage to reach out. 

And then there were times like this, when the courage had sunk away before he’d even had a chance to summon it. How could a person make his skin prickle so, how could his heart forget its own beat? 

He had felt this once, in days when he had crept along the edges hoping Achilles would take no notice of him. Now, it was a different sort of fear - that what he had been seeing in the past months had not been true, that his own mind deceived him. 

His head swam with these thoughts, as he stepped carefully past the room, willing the floorboards not to creak. He didn’t notice the movement of the door, the arm shooting out. 

A hand grabbed him and pulled him inside, making him yelp. 

“Shh! Do you want to wake the whole lodge?” 

Face to face with Achilles, he could not look anywhere else. They were standing so close he could smell Achilles’ scent, and it brought him back, to that first meeting in this very room. 

Achilles laughed, seeing his surprise. 

“Was I convincing enough?”

He frowned, staring at Achilles harder as though he could find the answers in his face. All he got was the green of Achilles’ eyes meeting his, bright and serious, the way they always were in the arena. 

He thought perhaps, there were two of Achilles. The irony was that the one off the stage was the real performer. 

“A little too convincing, perhaps,” Achilles added, seeing Patroclus’ bewilderment. He still had a hold on Patroclus’ arm, but his grip was gentle. 

“I had to make sure he would forget about you.” Achilles reached up and tugged at Patroclus’ collar, and the movement almost made him smile. 

“Tell me you understand.” 

He thought about it. Agamemnon’s interest in him, where it had never wandered before. The only thing Achilles had left. It made sense if he was seen as a threat. 

Yet looking back at Achilles, the idea left him immediately. He couldn’t place how he knew it, but some part of him realized that it really _had_ been him Achilles was looking out for. Those clipped words, and that perfect mask of a face - a way to protect him. 

It was something he hadn’t expected from Achilles, not at all. All those nights together on the stage, and he had missed something about the other man, rather like the light reflecting off the water, making an arc of color. 

Blink and it was gone. 

He took Achilles’ hand now, willing it back. Ran his thumb over the red mark that had spread around the wrist, where Agamemnon had gripped so hard. 

Achilles was watching him, as he sometimes did, irises unmoving yet seeming to take everything in. It was a while before he spoke. 

“Meet me at the gates first thing at noon. There’s something I want to show you.” 

That was even more of a surprise. They were supposed to have a rehearsal in the afternoon. 

“You _will_ come, won’t you?”

It reminded him so much of words from long ago, a kind of childlike innocence, an anxiousness and a hope. He nodded, letting go of Achilles’ hand, feeling that stare on him all the way out the door.  
\---

He didn’t realize how restless he had gotten until Ajax mentioned it. 

“Fuck, can’t get away from the arena, can you?” 

The older man made a face, as though even the thought of the place sickened him. 

“Stop tapping your feet like that. Can’t even have lunch in peace.” 

Ajax was in a sour mood, and rightfully so. With the fire and water act becoming so successful, his contributions to the troupe were meager in comparison. There was talk that Odysseus planned to sell him soon. 

But Patroclus could not help the jittery feeling that had overtaken him. It went all the way down to his toes, waking them up.  
The sun was high in the sky, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Achilles’ words earlier. He tried to imagine what it was Achilles wanted to show him. A new idea for the next show season? They would have to start practicing as soon as the season ended. 

_STOP COMPLAIN_ , he wrote, flashing it at Ajax. It made the older man grumble even more, but it also coaxed out a laugh. 

“Menelaus is going to regret teaching you your letters,” Ajax insisted. 

“And learn grammar, idiot.” 

_LEARN MANNERS_.

“Fuck off,” Ajax retorted, rolling his eyes and carrying his plate away. 

“Well if you must, I guess it wouldn’t make a difference if you left now. You and Achilles,” he huffed. 

“Cut from the same cloth, the two of you. I haven’t seen that kind of obsession with the stage since -” He trailed off. 

Perhaps he was thinking of Little Ajax, then. 

Patroclus leapt to his feet, his blood already racing through him. He could have kissed Ajax, but he didn’t think the other man would appreciate it.  
\---

He was beginning to think Achilles had forgotten all about it, shuffling his feet by the gate and counting the cracks in the pavement. The carriages rolled past him one by one, and the sun had gone into hiding, a mass of clouds looming overhead in foreboding grey. 

“What do you say?” 

He started, not having heard the other man come up behind him. 

“Umbrella, or no umbrella?” 

Achilles was peering up at the sky, looking more calm than Patroclus had ever seen him. 

“Then again, a little rain never hurt anyone.” 

Patroclus huffed, the laughter coming before he could stop it. If only Achilles knew. Oh, all the things he could tell him. 

They looked at each other, as though seeing one another for the first time. And indeed, they had never done anything like this before. It had always been back and forth, the lodge and the arena, that it never occurred to him they could exist anywhere else. 

Except that one night, at the Harvest Moon Festival. He clutched the memory close to his chest, as bitter and precious as it was all at once. 

“Don’t look so alarmed,” Achilles said, one side of his mouth lifting in the semblance of a smile. 

“Odysseus knows I go off sometimes. After all, where would I run to?” 

Where indeed? A whole city before them, and no chance of escape. How could there be, when there was no telling how far the boundaries of their prison reached? It was more than the walls of Polis Thugater keeping them in. It was the walls that had been built in their own minds, the fragile structures that made up their identities. 

“Shall we?”

They took a carriage, and he watched the city go past him out the window. They went right past the main street, past their arena, even past the red light district where he had never ventured. 

“Worst fate for a performer,” Achilles murmured, eyeing the rundown brothels, the ramshackle buildings that could hardly be called guesthouses. 

His fingers folded together, the knuckles turning white. He hadn’t even known that was a possibility. He shuddered, thinking of his own experiences in Odysseus’ guesthouse, how he had feared it would become all that he knew. 

He let out a breath when the buildings were out of sight. He couldn’t tell where they were anymore. They had reached the very edge of Polis Thugater, and his heart began to thump, wondering if they would really do it. 

If they would go even further, past the walls, into the open land beyond.  
\---

Mountains and sky. 

His first day in the city, he had witnessed the flight groups roaming the clouds, the wind behind them ruffling their wings of silk. He could almost hear their laughter now, hear the cheers of the crowd. But it echoed at the back of his mind, because there was no piercing the great silence that endured all around them. 

It was a vast valley that stretched out further than his eyes could reach, rolling green from east to west. Just beyond it he could make out the buildings of Polis Thugater, but they seemed distant as a dream, the fog from the mountains rendering them unreachable. 

Something told him it was the very same mountain range the Sparrows had hiked, back in the days of boyhood when they had been allowed to fly in over the city. Antilochus would have killed to be here, he thought.

It had taken nearly the whole afternoon to reach the top of the lowest peak, and they stood gazing out. A feast for the eyes. 

There were some sights so lovely, they tugged at a string in his heart. This was a sight so majestic, he felt as though he were walking on air itself, any moment and he would fall into the valley below. 

Yet, he was not afraid. That weight in the pit of his stomach, it was excitement. It grounded him, kept his legs from swaying, the cool air of the mountaintop making his skin feel like ice. 

What was the arena? he wondered. What was the dome? When there were places like this, away from the eye of the city, unending and free. 

He could forget for a moment what he was. He could forget for an hour. He could forget for all time. 

On the mountain over the valley, he was not Patroclus. He was not even the boy from the village. He simply _was_. 

And it was his first taste of the world beyond, soft and light on the tip of the tongue like the many words he had lost. 

He felt like a figure in one of his paintings, and pictured the silk room tumbling away; until all that remained was the paint, his hand letting go of the brush, the colors swirling around him and drowning out the world. 

He could hear Achilles behind him, feel the other man drape a thick blanket around him to block out the wind. And he laughed, because for once, he wasn’t wary of the cold. 

He could have stayed there forever, feet rooted into the ground until he became a statue of ice, overlooking the valley like a guardian of sorts. 

But the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and his vision was broken. He closed his eyes, feeling its rays warming his face. 

“I brought you here to show you something.” Achilles’ voice, nearer to him than he’d anticipated. 

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, already dizzy from the sudden warmth. He let Achilles lead him away, feet heavy as they went further from the precipice. They walked for several minutes before they found the pathway, and up Achilles went, towards the steepest slope that ran up the rocky face of the mountain. 

It was a large stone, carved into the outcrop. He could feel his jaw drop, seeing how far up it went, how far around the side of the mountain. He had craned his neck over Menelaus’ shoulder, scanning the paragraphs for words he knew. 

And here, names. In the thousands. In the millions. In more than he knew to count. 

They were scratched in, row after row, some in letters too foreign to make out. 

He reached out a hand, stopping before he could touch them. He glanced at Achilles, watched the other man’s gaze roving over the surface, becoming more solemn as the seconds went by. 

And he knew, then, what this place was. 

A place of memory. A place of history. The story of Polis Thugater, all in the names of the ones who had carried it on their backs. 

He had been given a name. And perhaps it did not belong to him. But one day, it would be carved into this rock, and the past that had lain behind it would be no one else’s but his. 

“We give them back,” Achilles said, his voice so soft it could have been imagined. 

“They are tools of power, to control us, a constant reminder that we are no one without the masters who gave them to us. But these are people who are gone now. And before they died, they came up here to give their names back to nature. By giving up the one thing that holds the chains together, they are set free.” 

Achilles paused, a line appearing between his eyebrows. 

“Or so they believed. Either way, I thought you should know about this. Sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps me going.” 

How long they stood there, he didn’t know. 

The question was on his lips, and he scrambled around for the scrap fabric he kept on him. Achilles already knew what he was going to ask. 

“What if we never get a chance to come up here when the time comes?” There was that smile again, pulling at the corner of his lip. 

“Well …” A glint in his eye, as the thought passed between them. 

“We could make a pact.” 

Achilles held out his hand, straight and formal like they were at an event. 

“If something happens to you, I swear to carve your name into the rock and set you free. Do you swear the same?” 

He bit his lip, pretending he had to think about it. It made an amused look emerge over Achilles’ face, breaking the tension that had been there since they had arrived at the rock. 

At last, he nodded, fingers meeting Achilles’ in a firm handshake. And the pact was made.  
\---

It had grown cloudy again by the time they made it back down the mountain, and he lamented that they had not been able to see the sunset from up there. It would have been magnificent, he knew. But there was no use dwelling on what-could-have-beens. 

The sky only grew drearier, the clouds so heavy over them, that he counted only seconds before the first drizzle began to fall. 

They _definitely_ should have brought an umbrella, he thought, climbing out of the carriage when it reached the front of the lodge. 

The gates were shut, so they stood outside shivering, clothes sticking to their skin as they waited for a kitchen boy to come out the back and let them in. 

A little rain never hurt anyone, Achilles had said. He shook his head to himself. What a way to think. 

He caught Achilles’ eye, and could have sworn the other man knew exactly what went on in his head at that moment. 

There was a sudden grin of mischief, and then Achilles was up and over the gate, having clambered over it so fast Patroclus was left staring at empty space. 

“Going to wait outside until nightfall?” Achilles yelled. 

A second later, and an arm appeared over the gate, waiting to haul him up. 

He might have slipped and broken his neck. The feel of wet clothing was hardly pleasant against him. But running across the courtyard, their feet landing in puddles, his heart was lighter than it had been in a long time. 

The rain came down even harder, until the sound of it drowned out their laughter. 

He waited for the thunder, even saw the streak of lightning bursting out across the sky. None of it irked him. 

He watched Achilles lean his head back, blinking away the raindrops that fell into his eyes, hair clinging to his face in soaked strings. 

“It’s just water,” Achilles said, looking at him. 

“I’m not afraid of water.” 

The silence fell. It was the two of them, the raindrops on Achilles’ skin, the puddles at their feet. 

Why was rain so different from the water in the arena? Perhaps it wasn’t. The rain season. The lucky season. And there was no part of him that could deny it right then. 

The door swung open, startling them both. A wide-eyed kitchen boy stood staring at them for a minute, before hurrying away and leaving the door wide open. 

In they ducked, taking care not to trail puddles onto the clean floor. The oven had not been lit, but still he gravitated towards it, shedding the outer layers of his clothes and helping Achilles out of his. 

The storm began to rage outside, tame droplets forming into hard bullets pattering against the roof. He opened the oven door and added more coal, found a clean tea kettle and threw in some leaves. Some habits never died. 

“Patroclus.” 

Perhaps a few months ago he would have jumped at the shock, hearing Achilles call him by his name for the first time. 

Instead, he turned around, eyes finding the other’s. 

Achilles had wrung out his hair, so that it now lay against his shoulder, a shade darker than it usually was. Somehow it made him look younger. Or perhaps it was the expression on his face, more open than Patroclus had ever seen it. The smile was still there, lurking at the corners of his mouth, only a second from showing itself. 

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you,” Achilles said. 

Patroclus looked down. He hadn’t been expecting that. Hadn’t been expecting it at all. He’d put it behind him, in truth. What use was there digging it up, when he and Achilles had needed to concentrate on their act? 

They were partners on the stage. There needed to be trust and understanding, not bitterness or contempt. 

Even then, there had been no taking away what was said. The past could be released, but it could not be erased. He hadn’t realized how much it would mean to him, to hear those words being said. 

Sincerely, matter-of-factly. As though there were no others that Achilles knew to say. 

_Filthy country hands_. He lifted them up, remembering the embarrassment he’d felt, the way Achilles had looked at them. Now, the fingernails were clean and shiny. The blisters had faded away. They were the smooth, unmarred hands of someone who had never known labor. 

He managed a sheepish smile, turning his hands over, wondering if Achilles remembered as well as he did. 

Achilles stood, then, coming up to him until they were close again. 

He looked at Patroclus’ hands. He pursed his lips. 

Then he took them in his, fingertip pressing against fingertip, palm against palm. His were warm to the touch, even after being out in the cold for so long. The fire in him, always there even when it wasn’t in view. 

“There,” Achilles muttered. And he needn’t have said any more.


	13. Chapter 13

As autumn shed its leaves, the air turned crisp and cool. He would wake up in the mornings, sleepily stumbling over to the window with eyes half-open until he was greeted by the plum blossom tree. Sometimes its flowers drifted over to the glass, carried by the wind. 

He opened the window and caught one in his hand, the starburst shape framed against his palm. Just the other day he had gotten a paper cut on the edge of his thumb; the blood had seeped out bright red, like the outline of the petals. 

It was these little things that he never failed to observe - the small wonders that made the world what it was, in all its fragile moments. Menelaus said it was what made him different. The acts he performed, fashioned from his own mind. There was something about them, some secret ingredient that had not been accessed in times past. 

“It’s the ordinariness of it,” Menelaus had said. 

“What is so special about a horse? What is so special about the shadows dancing at our feet? You choose something from the mundane and transform it into a spectacle worth seeing. It takes a different kind of eye to do that.” 

He’d had no reply to that. He didn’t stop to think about what made the show different - all that mattered was that it was something worth bringing alive, a part of his mind and heart he could not express except with the way of water. 

Perhaps that was why they were the way they were. When he stayed up till night blended into morning, he could see the light across the way from Achilles’ room. The window was always shut, the curtains always drawn. But it was the lamplight within, its warm glow, that made him wonder; were they what they were because there was some part of them that simply wasn’t like the others? 

He had been a _strange child_. Perhaps that strangeness had never gone away. Perhaps it would never leave him, but remained a part of him; the part that called to the water, the part that knew the names of Xanthus and Balios. 

Silly thoughts. His were questions that could not be answered. He had shaken his head at himself, taken another long look at the light from Achilles’ window, and drawn his own curtains shut.   
\-----------------------------------------------------

They saw each other sometimes in the hallways. It was impossible not to pass by the other’s room. In between show seasons, the activity in the lodge tended to settle down. 

It was funny how well they knew each other in the arena. 

The smallest twitch of the eyebrow, and he knew Achilles was dissatisfied with the act. A downward tilt of the mouth, and he was sure it was a disaster. Barely any words passed between them, they had learned to communicate so effectively. 

And yet, it all melted away the minute they stepped off the stage. Two strangers, and a light in the window he would wait for when it grew dark. Two friends, and the pact they had made. 

It was one autumn morning they crossed paths again, and he stopped in his tracks. It was rare they caught one another unawares, no Menelaus at his side, no Agamemnon at Achilles’. 

It was rarer still, seeing Achilles pause, gaze resting on him like there was nowhere else to look.   
He did that.   
He was not one to avert his eyes, always knowing what they searched for. A second passed and out came a tentative smile, stretching across his face.   
Blink and it was gone. 

Why were people so haunted by the questions they could not answer, the myths they could not find truth for? 

It reminded Patroclus of a comet he had once seen shooting through the night sky. Those unusual things, awaited for a lifetime until they made their appearance again. Such was the way Achilles’ smile lingered in the back of his head, only for him to puzzle at what driving force made him wait and wonder when he would see it again.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One season. Two. 

If he ever stopped to notice, he could picture the numbers flying by his head as though in a dream. They faded and blurred, each crowd blending into the other, and every time the show was something else. 

It might have been a simple story he told, but like the horses from the water, each day brought a new thread in the tapestry. 

_Wait_ , he often wished he could say. If he could ask the time to stay still until he could catch up, until every detail of their act was stark and perfect against the backdrop of light. You could now see the strands of hair on the heads, the bend of the knuckles, even the quiver of the knees on the shadowy silhouettes. 

Xanthus and Balios were known throughout Polis Thugater. It had given him a shock the first time he had seen it - a carriage ride through the streets, and little children laughing as they ran around with their toy horses; made from felt or cheap cotton, one black as night and the other light as day. They were sold on wooden sticks, tiny strings made to pull at their legs and make them run. 

He’d stopped the carriage and peeked out, only to be met with gawks and stares - they had made him curl into himself, feeling once again the little boy unwelcome by hostile villagers. 

“It’s him!” someone had yelled. 

They didn’t go near the carriage, but several people did stop to look. And he realized then that they knew who he _was_. It was the strangest thing. 

It had only been afterwards, when he’d shrunk away from the carriage window and was on his way home, that the looks on their faces came back to him. Excitement, and awe. 

The next day, Achilles went with him in the carriage. 

“You’ll get used to it,” the other man said, shaking his head at Patroclus, seeing him duck as they passed by a busy street. 

A memory came to him then, cleaning the lodge with Teucer and being distracted by the performers traveling to and fro outside. He was one of them now. It was hard to fathom. 

Achilles caught him staring at the children’s toy horses. 

“Cheap, mass-produced. They fall apart in a week.”

But later that night, there was a knock at his door, and both black and white horses in their toy forms were hung over the knob as though they had been waiting for him. 

They didn’t fall apart at all, in fact. He hung them so carefully next to the lamp beside his bed, their stiff cotton bodies casting equine shapes over the length of the wall. 

Xanthus and Balios belonged to the water. But here in his room, they were his, even if the details weren’t there and their legs could only run on strings.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The third show season was a performer’s rite of passage. Gone was the novelty, the unfamiliarity of it all. He had one more chance to prove himself, for all of Polis Thugater to become his stage. 

There had never been a busier night. The house was sold out, eager spectators rushing for a seat. Whispered rumors of what the next shadow act would entail, passionate discussions of the last one. It had become a sort of staple among the events, along with tried and true performances like the fire dances and the flight groups. 

He could never quite get rid of the jitters before a show. Even when he tried to busy himself, concentrating on the sounds of other performers getting ready, the smell of paint and perfume in the air - it was a small tingle in his hands, that seemed to run through his veins all the way to his stomach. 

He imagined Menelaus’ blue butterfly, awake from its slumber and fluttering around in his gut, until it had multiplied into a flurry of wings and air and anxiousness. Not unlike the man himself, ever more invested in the act as he was. 

He had lost count of the number of times Menelaus had urged him to stay awake, wanting to discuss the show and all of its possibilities. He didn’t have the heart to tell the other man that there was only one person he could share it with. 

The only one who knew him on the stage, whose flames knew the water and was not afraid of it.   
\---

“Xanthus! Balios!” The crowd chanted, and it was as though their voices lifted him from the ground, made his spirits soar in exhilaration. 

Little did they know, it was no one else’s voice but his who commanded. He made them wait, as he always did - keeping them on the edges of their seats. It was usually Achilles who knew how to play the crowd like this, but he had learned a few tricks himself. 

“Xanthus! Balios!” The chanting continued, and when the first head emerged, it erupted into cheers. Xanthus reared his head back, tossing the rivulets from his mane. It shone slick and glossy, pinned against his skin, but the heat from the sun would later dry it, when he and Balios made their rounds pulling it around the arena. 

They did not listen to Achilles, but they had learned who he was. The slightest whicker, a sway of the tail - these were the sparks of recognition they showed in greeting, and it was the expression on Achilles’ face seeing it that Patroclus enjoyed more than anything. 

“I sometimes forget they are not real,” came Achilles’ murmur. He said the same thing every night, yet it seemed to bear repeating. 

_But they are_ , was what Patroclus would have said, if he could. 

He thought of the little horses with their rickety legs in his room. As real as whatever it was that had made Achilles leave them at his door, as real as the seconds that passed waiting for the other’s light in the window. 

Something that had become so ingrained in his mind, in his heart, that the thoughts lingering at the back of his head became second nature. Whoever said something real could only be things that were touched?

He stretched out his hand and once again saw Achilles’ fingertips pressed against his, warmth chasing away the chill of the rain. 

The sounds of the crowd began to disappear, the longer he stayed on the stage. _Them_ he could forget. They existed in a world outside his, and especially when the shadow act came up, they were nowhere to be found inside his domain of fire and water. Phoinix had once said that they existed to keep the art alive. They existed to preserve the audience’s satisfaction. 

But he had a secret - to keep his art alive, he performed only the story he had to tell. Perhaps he had discovered something about himself, about the many who had graced the arenas of Polis Thugater. 

Perhaps it was the secret many had kept and died for their entire lives. They told their stories as well as they could, and when it was over, they would know what they had shown was truly theirs, and theirs alone. 

They might have belonged to the city - but the art was theirs to nurture, to share, to release. It was a blessing and a curse, capable of great beauty and terrible atrocity. 

When he heard the roar of the crowd, the image of Little Ajax burned its way to the forefront of his vision. He saw the iron collar twisting its way around the throat, and felt his own tighten in response. 

But then a hand found his, and he remembered where he was again, him and Achilles bowing low to the audience at the end of their act.   
\------

He stayed in his dressing room for a long time. He could hear Odysseus outside, and facing the troupe master was always something he wished to avoid. The success of the act had improved Odysseus’ mood tremendously. The spark in his eyes was back, the easy charm of the man who had smiled at Patroclus and offered him kind words once. 

He found that he no longer believed in them. Every grin from the troupe master bounced off, every look was a cut. He was an illusionist. Perhaps it made him more attuned to the truth than anyone else. 

He ran a cold washcloth over his face, took a deep breath. His dressing table was crowded with flowers, the scent of them so cloying they made his stomach constrict with nausea. He didn’t get sick from exhaustion any more, but the thought of facing Odysseus alone made his skin go cold and clammy. 

He looked at himself in the mirror. The person looking back was not Odysseus’ star, and never would be. He belonged to the troupe. That was all. 

_Hold your head up high and walk out that door_ , his reflection seemed to say to him, sounding cross. 

_I can’t_. 

_Weak_ , his reflection snorted, expression twisted in disgust. _Whatever would Achilles say?_

_Achilles knows Odysseus. Achilles is not afraid of him._

_And neither are you._

He examined the glass, looked closer at the Patroclus who stared back at him. Pale and tired, smaller than he looked underneath the heavy robes he wore. He willed the trepidation out of the eyes, pulled the mouth back so that its frown was barely noticeable. 

_There_ , he thought. _There is the Patroclus who will face the master_. 

He squared his shoulders, and out the room he went. 

“We were beginning to think you would not come out,” came Odysseus’ voice, sharp as it always was. But he was not alone. 

Patroclus scarcely heard him, his eyes on the person taking up most of the hallway. Night after night, always in the exact same seat. He had never stood so close to Lord Hector before. 

“I’m afraid this is a bit of an embarrassment,” the man said. He was more soft-spoken than he looked. 

“Every season we have the privilege of watching you perform, and it is only now that I have the chance to congratulate you.”

“I would have been happy to arrange a meeting,” Odysseus cut in, but Lord Hector didn’t so much as turn his way. 

“You haven’t the slightest idea how much joy you have brought into our household. My wife and I thank you.” 

He pictured the plum blossom tree swaying in the garden. It brought a smile to his face. 

He inclined his head, realizing the brief words held much more significance than any claps or cheers he would have heard from the seats. Every night they had watched him. It meant more to him than he could imagine. 

Lord Hector was gone as quickly as he had appeared, and Patroclus had a feeling the moment had been a rare one. As they made their way to the carriages, he caught sight of Lady Andromache slipping her arm through her husband’s. Their gazes met for a second, and he could hear her again. 

_“I thought I was there with you, for a second.”_

She lifted her hand in a wave, that same confiding smile touching her face. 

He waved back at her even when he was in his carriage, craning his neck out the window to see her, waved even when they were out of sight. Different worlds, they lived in. But she had seen a part of him and kept it between them.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Arena before dawn._

His handwriting was no longer as shaky as it once had been, the letters no longer awkward and forced. He still didn’t know all the words, but he knew enough. And that was all that mattered, as he slipped the piece of parchment underneath Achilles’ door, hands trembling with excitement. 

He had been thinking about it ever since their time at the mountain. He had dreamed of the rain, and willed it to come back again to bring him luck. But the months remained dry, and so he had determined to make his own luck. 

There was something Achilles had said that stayed with him, ever since that day. The face of the mountain rock, that had held those many names. The only thing that kept him going. 

Hadn’t he had that once? Hadn’t there been a certain memory he had wished for someone else to see? His mother. Antilochus. And now, Achilles. He had given up on that dream a long time ago, but he remembered the first time he had ever seen the dancer, even before hearing him speak. 

So much had passed between them since then. Achilles had trusted him enough to show him the mountain of names. Achilles had believed in him enough to make their pact. 

Now it was his turn. The first time he had learned fear, and the hope he had held on to over the years. There was someone who could see it. He only hoped he would not fall apart, not be torn asunder to reveal something so deeply rooted in himself.   
\---

He waited. He knew Achilles would come. How many dawns had they spent together, watching the sun brightening the sky over the open top of the arena, planning and crafting their next act? 

They were co-conspirators. They were the only ones who could guess at the other’s ideas. 

He heard Achilles’ footsteps before he saw him. Light and soft, over the steps, onto the stage. They didn’t need a greeting, only for him to show what he wanted Achilles to see in the water. 

“Well?” Achilles asked, when nothing happened. 

“What couldn’t wait until the rehearsal?” 

A tapping of the foot, to signal his anticipation. 

In response, Patroclus held out his hand. His pulse raced as he did so, he felt Achilles would sense how fast his blood thrummed beneath the wrist once he took his hand. 

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have anything to show me?” 

Patroclus stretched out his hand again, waving it urgently. Achilles sighed, finally obliging, but he didn’t look too happy when they both waded into the pool. The cold of the water was a shock. 

“Why do we need to go in for this? I am _not_ diving underwater. It’s too early.” 

Patroclus ignored him. He closed his eyes, concentrating hard. It had been a long time, and he didn’t know if it would come as easily. He remembered the current, how it had swept him away as easily as a stray branch. He remembered it going up into his nose and blinding his eyes. 

The day at the river. Where it had all begun. 

“Do you hear me, Patroclus? _Not_ underwater.” 

The sentence came out just as he grabbed Achilles and plunged them both beneath the surface. 

It was not dark like the water from which the horses were born. It was bright cerulean, all around, a sense of calm overtaking him as he came face to face with Achilles. All movements were slowed, even the flow of Achilles’ hair, gleaming golden against the blue, bubbles forming at his mouth and nose. 

They were both there now, and suddenly, that feeling he’d had over the years was gone. He was no longer alone. The day at the river, when he had learned the meaning of fear. He had Achilles with him, looking back at him under the waves, and their hands were clasped tight to keep each other steady. 

Achilles was trying his best to look irritated, but Patroclus blew a long stream of bubbles at him, and they tickled his cheeks until he grinned. 

How long he had wanted this, he didn’t know. How long he had just wanted to show someone, to bring them back with him to the place buried in his heart. He had finally found the right person. 

And just at the very corner of his eye, he caught the silver gleam. 

It was back. 

He thought they had forgotten each other, but some things were not meant to stay apart for long. 

His silver fish. Dancing, always dancing. Weaving between the rocks, between the weeds, towards the surface. His messenger, his key. The one who had brought him all this way, only to swim further out of his reach every time he had come too close. He had spent his life chasing it. Perhaps it was time he start again.

He beckoned his head to call it closer, chest lightening when it caught the light exactly the way he remembered. Up close he could see its scales, the glass of its eyes. 

It swam in circles around his head, around Achilles’. In the distance, he could hear his mother calling. The ache in his heart was only there for a second before he concentrated on the silver fish again, coaxing it forwards. 

It was the closest he had ever come to it. It swam right by his nose, its tail flicking only a hair’s breadth from his skin. It darted through Achilles’ hair, its shine for once rivaled by the gold strands. 

He laughed and he called to it, all the hellos over the years he had missed. It was like seeing an old friend, an old love. An old dream, revived again.   
\---

They must have been there for hours. When they came up, the sun was high in the sky. They were soaked to the bone, their clothes weighing them down on the floor around the pool. 

He lay there and soaked up the warmth of the sun, for once letting the water stay as it was. He could hear Achilles’ breathing, indrawn gasps of air. The other man would never be as attuned to the water as Patroclus was, even if he had been silently protected all that time beneath the surface. 

It was peaceful in the arena, just the two of them. He sensed Achilles turning onto his side. He hadn’t realized they had never let go of each other’s hands until Achilles tugged his fingers away.

Achilles was looking at him so hard he had to open his eyes, if only to see what he was thinking. 

He couldn’t tell what that expression was. They lay side by side, the sun nearly blinding them. For a second, the slanted rays were too bright to make out the other man. But he blinked once, and then Achilles’ face was clear next to his, the eyes wide and green and staring. 

“You painted them.”

The blood that had been racing in him stuttered and stopped. 

“All of them. It was you.”

He opened his mouth, because the picture came to mind. The first time he had seen Achilles. His silver fish, glimmering and rippling at him in an unfamiliar place. How he had marvelled at someone else wearing it. How he had marvelled at the rows of silks he had created, lovingly arranged on Achilles’ wardrobe. 

_It was me_ , he nodded. 

He didn’t know what else could have been said between them, but the relief that flowed out of him, knowing that his creations had been loved even after they were taken from him. All of those hours he had spent in that silk room, not knowing who he painted for. All of those years that had passed, not knowing where the two of them began and ended. Perhaps they knew now.


	14. Chapter 14

He caught the sound of the shuffling as it began, leaped up from his bed. The bottoms of his feet tingled with the excitement; the sides of his face hurt from the abruptness of a grin. 

No matter how hard he craned his ears, he could never quite make out the fading footsteps. It was as though the folded paper magically appeared under his door every night - phantom fingers, brushing against the edge as it was pushed over the threshold. 

It was in his hand before he knew to move, hastily unfolded before he knew to think. The other’s neat handwriting, elegant loops in black ink against the parchment. So different from his own crude script. It made his heartbeat quicken just seeing it. 

_Arena before dawn_. 

The magical hour. The hour when the minds met, the rare and raw glimpse of shapes and silhouettes only dreamed up the night before. 

These were the dreams they described, the early sparks of flint and steel before the fire arose. He thought he spent the day awaiting their conversations. If fire and water could speak to each other, this was how they did so. 

If he could quell the shaking of his hands just for a moment - he looked at them, outstretched and arranging his drawings in a neat pile, barebone sketches of the plans for their act. 

“Like this?” Achilles would ask, a long stripe of flame licking up from his palm. 

_Like this_ , he would reply, making its shade play across the surface of the water. 

Like this and like that. Trials and errors, mistakes and misunderstandings. But through it all, the other’s eyes looking right at him, seeing what he saw. 

These were their conversations. And from them, their performances were created.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His ears were still ringing from the echoes of the arena, the pump of adrenaline carrying him backstage more so than his own legs. He dodged the workers carrying props away, the stray musicians rushing to tune their instruments. 

They met in the middle, in the wings backstage, and he thought the rapid rise and fall of Achilles’ chest must have matched his own. So out of breath they were, another successful show completed. 

“What did you think?” Achilles yelled, voice barely carrying over the ambient noise. 

He shook his head, already grinning. Their heads bent over the sketches every morning, eagerly going through the steps. 

It never went as planned. And that was the beauty of it. Truly. 

They could plot and scheme as much as they wanted, but the bottom line was this - they could only go as far as their art would allow them that night. 

Lately Achilles’ fire had been brash and angry, demanding to let its presence known. The result was a flare of shadow, cast out across the water in bursts of movement. Nothing like the smooth, seamless transitions they had envisioned. But it was still glorious. They never knew what they would get, and it kept them on their toes. 

After the show they avoided the carriages, not even bothering to change out of their costumes. They waited for the crowds to clear out, for the stage to empty itself. And then the arena was theirs again, and he would lay out his sketches all around, so they could pore over them as long as they wanted. 

Ajax had caught them doing it once, but had only tutted and reminded them not to stay out too late. The rest did not need to be said. They were treading a fine line, but so far it had gone unnoticed by the troupe master. Odysseus did not like being left out of things.  
\----------------------------

He loved these moments the most, sitting cross-legged on the empty stage with Achilles. Watching every frown of concentration, microexpressions he could learn and memorize. 

What it was Achilles saw in his drawings to frown at so deeply, he could not tell. But the other’s hands always handled them so carefully, like works of art he could not bear to damage. 

It was that night after their performance they sat there, the sweat still cooling on their skin, the arena around them a mixture of smells. He had gotten used to them; the dried paint of old props, the leather of worn drums - the air of the night from outside, wafting in from the open top. 

He was hot and cold all at once - stuffy in his performer’s robes, chilled from the wind up above, and lightheaded from the show. The lights were too bright to see the moon, but how dark the sky was. 

The open top of the arena was like an eye out into that darkness, and how long he looked, as if daring the night to bring him away, to defeat the light once and for all. 

“Where do you go?” 

The question snapped him out of it just long enough - he found Achilles, watching him in that way of his. He could only stare back. 

Achilles looked at him, letting the silence fall between them. He looked up at the open sky, stayed there for a moment - and was back again, the weight of his eyes on Patroclus’ more easily felt than seen. 

“There is someplace you go to. Away from here.” 

This wasn’t like other nights, making plans companionably. The heat and the cold went away. The floor of the stage was nothingness beneath him. 

A quiet corner of the world. His own, that only existed in his mind. How could Achilles know of it? 

He wished there was a moon to see. His quiet corner had a moon. 

“Fine, don’t tell me.” 

Despite his petulant tone, the smile had crept its way to the side of Achilles’ mouth. 

“Wherever it is that you find these -” Achilles patted the drawings. 

“It must be someplace worth visiting. Just remember to come back.” 

It made him smile, hearing that. He found Achilles’ shoulder and shoved at it. Of course he would remember to come back. Didn’t he always? 

The wind grew colder still, its breeze ruffling the fabric of Achilles’ robe. He pulled it closer around him. It wasn’t the same as the ones Patroclus had made, but the design was similar. Bold and bright colors, against an intricate background. 

All of his paintings in that silk room. He wondered if Achilles had asked for them. If he had seen something in the colors, understood the places and things Patroclus had imagined. Perhaps that was the reason he could recognize it now. 

No moon in the sky. He would place one there, he thought. It would shine bright among the clouds, so the light and the darkness would co-exist.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Odysseus’ presence was like a tide of cold water, jarring against the usual calm of the rehearsal stage. He observed them like a falcon, and if Patroclus looked close enough, he could almost see those creatures swimming beneath the surface, waiting to come out. 

The troupe was as profitable as it had ever been. And yet - there was no telling whether the master would hate or approve of their performance. 

He missed the earlier days, when it had been a gamble. Him and Achilles, a brand new act out of the dust, when there had been every possibility they would fail. Odysseus had given them free reign then. 

Now, his hold grew ever tighter. They had flown out of their cages, the first taste of independence sweet on the tongue, only to have the chain drawn taut again. 

No act went without Odysseus’ final approval. And it was becoming clear to them how their days would pass with the master showing up to the arena as often as he did. 

“He’s going to ruin everything,” Achilles had hissed, right in Patroclus’ ear during a rehearsal. 

It had surprised him - Achilles usually kept well away from him when Odysseus was around, for reasons he was unsure of. 

There was truth to it, even so. Odysseus was an expert in the acts of fire that had made his troupe successful in the first place - the fire dances and suspense shows, the danger and excitement of it all. He had known what made the audience tick. He had known what would sell. 

Perhaps now he didn’t. Perhaps it baffled him what exactly drew the audience to their fire and water act - and perhaps he didn’t like that at all. 

It made Patroclus worry, especially when the master started making demands that mirrored how he had previously trained them.  
\---

“This is not a fucking fire dance,” Achilles snapped, one day. He sat on the edge of the stage, covered in sweat and clearly exhausted. 

“Get up,” Odysseus replied, lips clamped in a tight line. 

“You’ve had us going for hours.”

“ _Get. Up._ ” 

Achilles got up, expression turning a little hesitant. Patroclus had never seen him look that way before - with the master, Achilles was always calm and unflinching. If there was fear, it was too well hidden to make itself known. 

“A few good seasons, and you think you know it all?” Odysseus jabbed a finger at Achilles, the muscles in his jaw straining. He pointed towards the middle of the stage. 

“Start over again.” 

Achilles frowned, taking his position. 

“And you,” Odysseus barked, glancing at Patroclus. “Did I ask you to stop?” 

Patroclus barely concealed his sigh, summoning the flow of water again. It didn’t feel like Achilles and Patroclus - once again, it was Achilles the dancer and his leveler. Odysseus seemed to have grabbed the hands of the clock, forcing time back in its place. 

A few minutes passed, and Achilles remained in his spot. His shoulders were slumped, hair sticking to his forehead. He had gone rather white. 

“I can’t.” 

“What was that?” Odysseus demanded. 

Achilles kept his eyes on the floor, but they darted out once in a sideways look at the master. 

“I said I _can’t_.”

His hands were shaking, trying to conjure his flames. They simply weren’t there. 

Patroclus watched him in a panic, wondering if Achilles was catching delirium again. They had worked hard when it was just the two of them, planning their act together. With Odysseus in the picture, they spent every waking hour in the arena, and there was no limit to it. Perhaps Achilles’ fire had reached the end of its rope. Perhaps it had had enough. 

There was a reason Achilles couldn’t perform the fire dance anymore. There was a reason the shadow theater was perfect for him, because it accommodated his fire. Now the fire was being forced back into submission, and it wasn’t having it. 

Patroclus remembered the floating light Achilles had made, when they revisited the old arena together. Proof that there were limits to how they wielded their art - it was not something that could be controlled completely. 

“What do you mean you _can’t_?” Odysseus was getting into a rage, but Patroclus could hear the smallest hint of trepidation in his voice. He had pushed Achilles too far, after all. 

“I mean there is no fire!” Achilles lashed back, the white of his face suddenly flooding with color. 

The seconds passed in silence. And then Odysseus turned to Patroclus. 

“Go home. I am going to deal with this.” 

Patroclus started to shake his head, but caught a look from Achilles, urgently telling him to do as Odysseus said. He got up from his seat by the pool and backed away, the weight in his stomach only multiplying until it was solid iron within him.  
\---

He waited for them to return. He stood outside the window that overlooked the gate, heart jumping every time a carriage pulled up. 

It was very late by the time they did - Achilles and Odysseus, in the same carriage, descending wordlessly and as calm as though nothing had happened. He stared out, scanning their faces for some sign of what had passed between them; there was nothing. 

He got ready for bed, keeping an eye out for the light to come on in Achilles’ window - but it never did. Instead, he burrowed under the covers, gazing up at Xanthus and Balios until his eyelids grew too heavy to keep awake any longer.  
\---

Odysseus kept them separated for the following week. Patroclus practiced in the arena by himself, the vast emptiness of the space for once getting under his skin. It had soothed him to be in a place so quiet, so peaceful. 

Now he realized how lonely it was, rows and rows of deserted seats and the bare oval of the stage. Just him and the ghosts of former performers, an imagined echo of the crowd’s roar. 

He tried slipping notes under Achilles’ door, but they went unanswered.

It was only on the seventh night when they were both summoned to Odysseus’ office, that old tobacco scent hitting Patroclus and bringing him back to the first time he had met the troupe master. 

He wondered what it was about that scent that made every inch of his skin tingle in uneasy familiarity - so many nights he had worked shifts at Odysseus’ banquets, and the rooms had always been filled with smoke. He should have been used to it by now. 

“There will be no more rehearsals together,” Odysseus announced. He was looking at Achilles, who did not say a word. 

Patroclus felt his hand twitch, an automatic reflex to reach for the writing tools in his pocket. 

_Why, why, why_? was all he wanted to ask. 

“It has taken some trial and error to determine Achilles’ training regiment. We cannot have him distracted while he attempts to rehabilitate. As for you, Patroclus - you will continue your practice in the current arena. I expect all plans for the show to be submitted for my approval.” 

He glanced at Achilles helplessly, willing the other to say something. They _had_ to rehearse together. The show wouldn’t work otherwise. 

Achilles didn’t return his gaze. His eyes were on Odysseus, staring blankly as though at a wall instead of a person. 

But one blink and Patroclus caught it - the merest snippet of it he had observed, over the years. He hadn’t realized then what it was. 

Like something that had been hidden in plain sight, the full picture was clear as day when it was finally discovered. Seeing that strange, empty look, he realized in that moment the depth of hatred Achilles held for the master. 

It must have been one clutched close and nursed over a lifetime. It made him shudder to see it. 

“You’re dismissed.” 

A wave of the hand, and he was expected to go. He felt he should have done something, pleaded, tried to explain. But there was something in the air that rang of conversations he was not a part of. 

He turned to go, feeling more defeated than he’d been even as a child servant in Odysseus’ lodge.  
\---

The light never did come on in Achilles’ window. It was as though the room beyond remained cold and dark. Was the other man in there, waiting as Patroclus did? Or had Odysseus’ decision sapped the hope from him for good? 

He couldn’t bear to think that it had. What could they be without what they had gently cultivated over the seasons? He thought of those silent messages across the way from one another. A call of fire, and how the water answered. 

There was no feeling like seeing their creations come to life, the rush of exhilaration and joy so great and sweeping. Something they shared in. Something only the two of them knew. 

No matter how cool the water became, he never caught a chill. It was like that day in the rain - the oven left unlit, their clothes dripping onto the kitchen floor. 

And Achilles had only to touch him, their fingertips pressing together - it had warmed him right down to the core. It had. 

He pressed his face against the window, feeling the glass against his cheek. He would give anything to feel that warmth again. He would give anything to see the lamplight flickering behind the drawn curtains. 

It was with this thought that he felt his feet on the floor, steadily making their way out of his room. Even if the rain had ever brought him luck, he could not stay and wait for it. There were certain things in the world he could make his own mind for - this he had learned.  
\---

He was in front of Achilles’ door, the nerves already fluttering within. He didn’t know if the other man would see him - if this was some mistake. But he _had_ to try. Hadn’t he taken the chance once? 

He tapped once on the door. He reached over and slid it open. 

At first he thought there was nobody in there, but then - 

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

He could have breathed a sigh of relief, making out Achilles’ dark figure on the bed. 

Achilles slowly sat up, rubbing at his head as though it hurt. 

“Really, Patroclus. Go back to your room.”

He shook his head, holding out his hand and miming writing on it, wondering if Achilles had even received his notes. 

“I did. It’s just - it has to be different now.”

With those words, Achilles slumped back onto the bed, taking a pillow and covering his head. Leaving them in silence. 

_No_ , he thought. This wasn’t the old days, him standing helplessly before a person he could not begin to know. 

He _did_ know Achilles. Knew his mind, the strength of his resilience, knew his love and weariness of the arena. 

_Talk to me_ , he wanted to say. But he had never had the words, could only speak by action. So he went up to Achilles and shook at him, took the pillow away. Made Achilles look at him, pleaded at him to speak. 

“I don’t want to talk,” Achilles snapped. “Go away.” 

What had Odysseus done? Was Achilles’ fire back to the way it was? All these questions, and no one would answer him. 

He sat on the edge of Achilles’ bed, debating what would make him get up and talk to him. 

And then he found it, the lamp right by Achilles’ window. He had been waiting for it. 

He got up and fumbled for the matchbox, triumphing silently when the light cast its familiar glow around the room. 

He heard Achilles’ angry sigh behind him. 

“You have no idea how humiliating it was.”

He turned to look at him, watched Achilles get up to pace the room. 

“That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? What he did to make me control the fire again.” Achilles’ mouth was twisted in bitterness. 

He paused for a second and picked up a pitcher from the side of his bed, taking a sip without a thought. Then he stopped himself, studying the ceramic. 

“I used to think it was good for me. How he had me force those flames to obey. He said it was the basics of fire. That if we didn’t learn to control it, it would defeat us. But I was just a child. It took - a lifetime to know what it really was.”

Achilles hung his head, closing his eyes, as though needing a moment to take his own words in. 

“A lifetime to know it was a lie!” He flung the pitcher across the room; it shattered against the wall, spilling wine in streams all the way down to the floorboards. 

“ _Lie_ after _lie_ after _lie_. And I knew it when we performed together - I could feel the relief. How _wrong_ it had been, how lost the fire truly was. It’s why it has been dying.”

Achilles looked down at his hands, the mark of over a decade wielding his flames. How beautiful his dance had been. But his fire suffered for it. 

“He has made me train again, the way he had me do when I was a child. A newly discovered talent, then. And now I am nothing.”

Achilles’ anger seemed to seep away at the words. He said them matter-of-factly, as if he had heard them before, running through his head like a broken record. 

Patroclus reached out a hand and gripped his arm. _Not nothing_. 

How could he be nothing, when they had performed together season after season, the shadow of Achilles’ flames casting the most beautiful of sights?

“But I try. I try to speak to it, if it would hear me again.” 

_It hears you_. Just like the water, the fire was always listening.

“Go back to your room, Patroclus. I’m tired.” 

He shook his head.

“Why won’t you listen?” The anger was back again. 

“Can’t you see what is happening? I have been poisoning my own art for years!” 

And as though the fire heard him then, it leapt up from his fingertips, crawling all the way up his arms. 

Patroclus snatched his hand away, so bright and powerful it was, licking over Achilles’ robes. 

He caught the shocked look on Achilles’ face, how the flames settled and died down at once when the other man realized what had happened. 

A mistake like that could have gotten him the Collar, if someone had seen them. 

“I’m sorry,” Achilles said, voice hushed. 

He grabbed Patroclus’ hand and examined it. It was slightly red from the heat, but the fire had not touched him. 

“It wouldn’t touch you. You have to know that, Patroclus. I would _never_ harm you.” 

Patroclus nodded, letting Achilles rub at his hand. The other man found a washcloth and dipped it in cold water, wrapping it around the irritated skin. 

“You know that, don’t you?”

He knew. Of course he knew. If he could tell Achilles a thousand times, he would. But all he managed was a squeeze on the shoulder, an answering look that he hoped conveyed all that he needed to say. 

Achilles held the cloth against his hand. Looked at him, at the lamp burning on the windowpane. 

He opened his mouth, tasting the words. 

_Please don’t put it out_ , he so wished he could say. 

_I won’t be able to find you in the darkness_. 

“You like the light.” 

He nodded, smiling in reply. Achilles’ face was serious, but a moment later he smiled back. 

“I’ll keep it on, then, and you’ll know I’m alright.” 

He thought his heart would burst, hearing it. 

If he could wait out the day, and know he would reach the end to see it burning for him, then it wouldn’t matter if they were apart. 

There was more. He could sense the stirring of everything yet to be said, see Achilles weighing them in his head. 

But they heard voices outside, intermingling together down the corridor. 

Odysseus’ and Agamemnon’s, headed this way. A few minutes, and they would be right through the door. 

“Go,” Achilles said, tying a knot in the cloth around Patroclus’ hand. 

He ushered him out of the door. “Quick. Go!” 

He held on to Achilles’ hand, gave it a squeeze. Caught the smile in its full form right as he turned, hurrying out of sight and back to his own room.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was nearing midnight, and he’d fallen asleep with the window open, arranging the windswept plum blossoms on the pane and feeling the breeze through his hair. 

He’d amassed quite a collection, white and pink and purple flowers fallen from the tree, carried to his room as though they knew where to find him. The window seat was like a sky full of stars, the scent sweet and fresh. He picked up a handful and poured it out onto the wind, the image immediately bringing an idea to mind. 

The budding of a flower, its full bloom in springtime, and the inevitable fall until it was carried wherever it would go. The span of a lifetime, all from a young tree. It would make a wonderful story, he knew. 

His heart felt heavy thinking it would never be approved. Who knew what the next season would be like, with Odysseus claiming control of their act? 

Still, he knew he needed to tell Achilles. He started sketching immediately, hands working quick to bring the image to paper. 

A light tapping on the door made him jump - three tentative thuds, and then it slid open. 

“I never did answer those messages you sent me,” Achilles said. 

His stance was almost uncertain, but he was staring right at Patroclus. As always. 

Those eyes, knowing exactly what they searched for. 

There was a silence, accompanied by the strangeness of seeing Achilles here. 

He often fell asleep with Xanthus and Balios next to his bed, thinking it was much the same.

It was not. 

Achilles’ gaze roamed over the room, stopping at the twin horses, at the flowers that had been blown through the window. He smiled when he saw the messy pile of Patroclus’ drawings crowding the desk and the floor. 

“For someone who doesn’t talk much, you do have a lot to say,” he remarked, eyeing the new one Patroclus had started. 

Patroclus had never thought about it in that way before. His heartbeat was beginning to sound like the drums in the arena, loud and fast, slow and fading - then loud again, making him start. Where had it found the rhythm? 

“It’s something I heard Menelaus say about you once. He said a lot of things about you.” 

Patroclus frowned, wondering why it was being brought up. He didn’t want to talk about Menelaus. There were so many other things he wanted to talk about with Achilles instead. Just the two of them.

“He doesn’t come in here unannounced, does he?” Achilles asked. 

Patroclus shook his head. 

“He must like you so, the way he speaks of you. But there are things he doesn’t mention, and I wonder how he can miss it.” 

In Achilles’ hand were the stray notes Patroclus had left under his door throughout the week, clutched to his chest as though afraid they would break. 

“Your laugh, for one.” 

He stared at Achilles, wanting to know what he was getting at. He didn’t know Achilles noticed. He had always laughed - weakly, because whatever was left of his voice could not sustain it. If he’d ever had a real, strong voice. 

He didn’t know how a person could survive without laughter. 

Achilles reached out and tweaked the side of Patroclus’ face, making a smile break out. 

“There it is, just where it begins.” 

He caught Achilles’ arm, the touch making an image jolt through his mind. 

_That face_ , came Achilles’ voice, his closed-off expression. He had been left to question what it was the other man had seen.

And now he could see his own reflection in the dark of Achilles’ irises, small, distorted - blinking back at him.  
If he closed his eyes he could almost keep track of the beat of the drum; his fingers tapping along, fingertip after fingertip meeting Achilles’ arm as though pressing the rhythm into his skin. 

A figure against the window, set aglow by the orange light of the lanterns. For many years Achilles had been distant as a dream; the dancer, unreachable. 

It reminded him of lights that had gone too bright, so that he would squeeze his eyes shut and see the rush of color at the edges of his vision - spiraling out of sight. That was the dancer. 

But the Achilles he had come to know - the one who smiled at the rain, whose spirit could never be tamed; this was the Achilles he had reached. 

Whoever said something real could only be things that were touched? Every brushstroke, every moonless night framed by the window on the top floor - all spent chasing the untouchable, only to find in the end that it lived and breathed after all. 

If he had known - he laughed, thinking of what that child in Polis Mater would have thought of him now. 

His chest hurt, the air coming out in short bursts. 

And then Achilles leaned forwards, pressed his lips to the corner of Patroclus’ mouth - catching that laughter. 

“And here it is now,” he said, so soft the sounds were blended together. 

He took Patroclus’ face and found the other corner, where the lips met and changed shape.

“You don’t know what it does to me to hear it.” 

He had gotten very still, the fabric of Achilles’ clothing smooth against his skin. He could feel the other’s hair brushing against his cheek, the light touch of his scent bringing his mind to a haze. The drumbeat had slowed, fading away into silence. 

“No?”

He shook his head, the movement sluggish. 

Achilles cocked his head to the side, mouth turning down in disappointment. 

“No.” 

And up it started again, pounding against his chest until the echoes reverberated to the bottoms of his feet. 

He had scarcely breathed and his hands were in Achilles’ hair, carding through the strands. 

_So that’s what it feels like_ , he thought, storing it away in his mind to be kept. 

Their foreheads met, their noses, and he barely realized he was pulling Achilles against him; the other drifting over like a log in the water, gliding without resistance.

A slow burn had started on the skin of his lips, spreading slowly until the heat rose up through his face. He thought for a second he had tasted the fire - but it was Achilles he kissed, whose hands moved over him and brought him ever closer, whose breath he could hear, stuttering and ragged.

His eyelids had grown heavy, the rest of his body succumbing to the warmth - a perfect summer warmth that made him want to curl up under his blankets, to let the world go on without him. 

But something inside his heart had awakened. Something forgotten and left in the wings, no longer afraid to break free, not even if it hurt. 

He thought he would fall apart, standing in his room with his arms around Achilles; knees threatening to buckle. 

_Not yet_ , he thought, even when they broke apart. 

_Not yet, never_. 

Achilles’ chest was heaving, slowly settling down as he caught his breath. 

“Enough of an answer for you?”

He nodded his head frantically, still clinging to the other, hands unwilling to let go. 

Achilles laughed, the expression transforming his face - rare and perfect, it was. 

He had a feeling it was something to hold on to, something never to be taken for granted. 

“I have to go back,” Achilles said, leaning their foreheads together and brushing their lips together once again. 

“But I’ll keep the light on, yes?”

 _Yes_ , he nodded.

 _Yes, and yes, and yes._

“Patroclus.” A parting word, his name carefully spoken.

He could never look away now. Even when Achilles was gone, he was straining his ears to hear the last of the footsteps. 

Even when he was in his bed, he was pressing his hands against his mouth, straining to feel the phantom touch. 

A kiss. It had been ingrained into his skin, so that even when he fell asleep, he would still feel it there. No matter how he tried, he could not stop grinning. It was the kind of joy he had imagined the Sparrows had felt, soaring free from the mountaintops, the sky theirs to conquer. 

The world could go on without him - he didn’t care, because he had swum into the depths, looking for his silver fish; this time, it had found him.


	15. Chapter 15

The shape of the other man’s silhouette filled his dreams - he’d lain in bed all night, blanket up to his chin. Taken away. 

If dreams were like shadows, lingering behind the lines until the light revealed them; then these were his. Dark arms reaching out to bring him to his feet, the promise of soft skin awaiting. 

It wasn’t until the light turned blue with the early morning, that the shadows blurred and he realized he was awake. Somewhere along the lines, he had awoken, cool air causing the gooseflesh to rise on his neck, so that he grabbed the covers and wrapped them further around himself. 

Warmth, he needed warmth. 

_Achilles_. He needed. 

Blinking the last of his dreams away, he watched drowsily as they retreated under the door; were shadows so afraid of open space, always creeping through the crevices? 

And then he heard the faint thuds, feet against floorboard. 

Real shadows moving by his door, not ones from the realm of sleep. 

He was out of bed, the comfort of the sheets abandoned. He slid the door open, back straight with excitement - and there Achilles was, looking back at him over his shoulder. 

A moment passed where all he could do was stay as he was - the quietness of the morning seemed to demand it, the look on Achilles’ face; soft around the eyes, surprise lightening his features. 

The night before, a phantom burning at his lips.

“I thought you were still asleep.” Achilles’ voice, a whisper. 

He lifted a shoulder. _Awake now_. 

“I thought I could catch you before the sun rises.” 

He leaned forward, stretched out an arm. 

“Have I?” An amused question. 

_You have me_. If he could say it again and again, until the sound became a whirr, the syllables incomprehensible. 

_Soft around the eyes_. He drank in the sight of the other man, if only to memorize the lines and the weight of his voice. 

The darker hours, when troubles could be swept aside in favor of the world that called to them. 

“One last rehearsal together - before he comes to take me away?” Not a question this time, for Achilles was smiling, slowly stepping towards him. 

“We can watch the rabbit outrun the flames again.” He had reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Patroclus’ ear, hand lingering to brush against the cheek. 

Their favorite game. His chest thudded to think of it, his rabbit leaping from the water to weave through the columns of Achilles’ fire. 

“Unless you’re too sleepy,” Achilles murmured, already close enough for his scent to fill the air - muted and sweet; he smelled like his room, fragrant wood and the freshly laundered sheets. And something else - something distinctly _him_ , that Patroclus recognized from all the days they had known each other. 

His mouth was warm when he bent to press it against Patroclus’ temple - then his eyes, one after the other. Chasing the sleep away.   
He was still the taller one - so much that Patroclus had to lift his head in order to catch his eye, without the distance between them. 

They couldn’t hide their smiles from each other; the feeling was still new. But underneath it all was a familiarity, borne from the span of their companionship and the knowledge of all that had come before. 

_Not sleepy_ , he protested, shoving at Achilles’ shoulder, savoring the quiet laughter that followed. 

And they were off, one last morning on the empty stage together, where the memories had been made; they didn’t need them. It didn’t matter that they would be apart - Achilles had promised to keep the light on for him, and he would see it at the end of the day. 

Something of the other that was his.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were some days when he thought he could hear the wind speak. Whatever messages it carried were unknown to him, but that soft breeze against his neck, cooling the heat from the sun - it made him lean back, enjoying the rise of the day. 

They had gone diving into the pool again, linking arms in the deep, legs kicking out so they went round and round; a merry-go-round, the golden strands of Achilles’ hair flying out around them, sun beneath water. 

When they came up, they’d lain by the pool soaking up the warmth from the open top. 

“There are places away from here where you can sit in the sand, watching the waves. The ocean. Imagine what you could do with the ocean,” Achilles said, eyes shut with his face turned towards the sunlight. 

He had never heard someone speak of the world outside Polis Thugater. But hadn’t he known it once? It seemed impossible now, too far away to reach. 

It made him think of the day he had almost stepped out - alone on the pavement, lost within the streets. 

It saddened the mood, and Achilles seemed to sense it. 

They were quiet for a few moments, him trying to come up with something to break the tension. Their clothes had dried by now, and the sun had retreated behind a flurry of white clouds so that the brightness was gone. He could now look at Achilles without squinting. 

He glanced at the pool, at the other’s closed eyes. 

An idea came to mind before he could stop it. 

As though sensing the direction of his thoughts, Achilles’ eyes flew open, shooting a sharp glance at him. 

“Don’t you even _think_ -” 

_Too late_. He covered his mouth, watching Achilles’ wide-eyed expression disappear beneath the stream of water that had blasted towards him. 

Spluttering, Achilles got up and made for Patroclus, still seated and struggling to contain his laughter. 

“I’m going to _kill_ -” He couldn’t finish the sentence, not with each shot of water ricocheting out of the pool and in his direction. He was soaked again in no time, the floor of the stage covered in puddles. 

Perhaps it hadn’t rained in weeks. Perhaps it wouldn’t anytime soon. But he had only to concentrate his will for the barest hint of a second, and the pool had risen to a fountain, pattering against the floor below the blue sky. 

His hair clung to his face and he was cold again - but it didn’t matter, not with the way Achilles’ frown dissolved into a laugh, the way he threw his head back to feel the cool spring against his face. 

Waterdrops, all over his skin. Running in one direction and then another, until they collided. 

He blinked and realized he was making them move, patterns forming from the flow of his mind. He laughed when Achilles wiped them away and told him to stop. 

One last rehearsal. And why not one they would remember this way?   
\---------------------------------------------------------

He thought they would be caught, trudging back into the lodge with wet clothes. He must have imagined it, but Achilles smelled like saltwater, and he could fool himself just long enough that they really had gone out for a day by the ocean. Just the two of them. 

The two of them, a train, a town. 

It made him smile and it made his heart ache at the same time. 

_If only, what if_. 

Perhaps the saddest words he could not say. 

Achilles caught the look on his face. 

“I will miss that rabbit,” he whispered. 

They had spent nearly an hour playing their game. Perhaps he would find some way so they could play it again. 

He decided they didn’t need a train and a town. They didn’t need a day by the ocean. 

They had water. They had fire. It was all they needed to get away.   
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had finished the drawing of the flower’s life. It was ready to be put into action. All he needed now was a way to convince Odysseus to let them do it. He sat by the window, rummaging through the words in his head. Finding one and discarding it. Composing his proposal. 

It wasn’t anything like what he had shown the audience before. But he thought they would like it. There was at least one person watching who would appreciate it, he thought. 

He needed Achilles’ help. The other man knew Odysseus’ mind better than he did. Together, they could perhaps ensure what they had created remained alive on the stage, even if they had to fight hard for it. 

It was late evening, and he tapped his foot restlessly, wondering anxiously when Achilles’ lamp would come on. The window across the way was still dull and lightless. 

Their first week not rehearsing together, and it had been a comfort to come home every evening knowing Achilles would be there, only a few walls away. 

He waited a few more minutes, and was about to give up, when the light came on. 

He jumped up, the surge of happiness within him at once. And he was out the door, the finished sketches clutched against his chest. Achilles would love them, he knew.   
\---

The door had been left open, and he nearly stepped in, one foot over the threshold. The sounds within made him pause, freezing in place at the sight he was met with. 

He hadn’t sensed them, not with how close they stood, Agamemnon’s head bent and whispering in Achilles’ ear, making him laugh. 

It was a kind of laugh he hadn’t heard before, each peal seeming to slice at him. He wanted Achilles to push the other man away, wanted him to be angry, willed the frown lines onto his face and the mocking glint he got in his eyes at his worst. 

But the seconds went by, and Achilles did none of those. Both arms were around Agamemnon’s waist, a quiet hum sounding out when the man kissed his neck. 

Patroclus shuddered. He wanted to go in there and tear Agamemnon away, Agamemnon who did not belong in Achilles’ arms, who should not have known the taste of his skin - 

Those thoughts reared their ugly head within him, and just in that moment, Achilles noticed he was there, gaze landing on him like iron. 

He couldn’t have known how long they stood there. Just a few steps away, and unreachable. So unreachable. 

Agamemnon wasn’t anything to Achilles. Was he? 

He remembered the wooden mask put on, Achilles draped over the other man’s arm like a prized possession. 

Night after night, pouring drinks and making the other man laugh with clever jokes. 

Year after year, dancing for the one patron who mattered. 

Perhaps it was Odysseus who had purchased Achilles and placed him in the troupe. Odysseus who had found a young boy with a remarkable talent, given him a toy. But it was one man whom that boy grew up belonging to.

If it was possible to hate another person for taking something from him - something that hadn’t been his to begin with … he felt it now. He felt the edge of anger seeping into the cracks, finding the places he had been cut and making its place in him. 

_Don’t_ , he begged, unwilling to let go. 

Achilles was not his and never would be. And it was not for him to rage, to envy. He had made his luck. 

They’d had their day in the rain. 

He couldn’t look away, not with how Achilles held him there, rooted to the spot. As though wanting him to stay, but warning him to go all the same. 

This moment was not for him. He should never have come. He could feel those eyes boring holes into his back, even when he turned to go. 

He heard the fall of the paper onto the floor, but didn’t bother to look. The flower’s life. Beautiful and fleeting, but not a life it had chosen.   
\------------------------------------------------------------

There was a frantic knock at his door in the middle of the night, so loud it echoed throughout his room. 

He opened the door to a livid Achilles, face nearly red with rage and another emotion he could not name. 

“What did you want?” Achilles demanded, coming in like the storm, robes sweeping behind him. 

He could hardly believe it. _Achilles_ was angry? When he had been the one - 

“ _What_ was so important that you needed to see me about?” 

He didn’t recognize the tone of Achilles’ voice. Enraged, yes, but laced with hysteria. 

He sat on his bed with a thump, staring at the other man. The dancer. Untouchable, unreachable. 

The dancer he had nothing to say to, no story to tell. He wanted Achilles. _His_ Achilles, whom he could never run out of images for. 

Achilles had run out of breath, holding on to the wall for support. 

“You’re upset with me.” He glared at Patroclus still. 

“You came to my room and saw something you didn’t like.”

He had left, hadn’t he? He’d left when he saw Achilles wanted him to. 

“What did you think you would see?” Achilles continued, voice growing sharper with each syllable. 

“He _owns_ me.” He tugged violently at his robe, nearly ripping the priceless fabric. 

“He owns the clothes on my back. He owns the _hair on my fucking head_. Who do you think bought those precious silks you painted, hmm? Who?”

He had come close to Patroclus now, daring him to look. 

Patroclus sat still and kept his head turned away. He was tired of the endless tide, waiting for it to crash down on him when he’d done nothing to call on it. 

He’d spent enough time around Odysseus to know what it was like. He’d withstood Phoinix’s beatings without a single tear. And he’d faced Achilles’ cruelty, in the early days when he’d just been a child who hadn’t asked for any of it. 

He wasn’t a child any more. And he was tired.

Achilles sighed. He looked at the floor, his feet nearly aligned with Patroclus’. 

“We can pretend all we like. But it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

He waited for Patroclus to look at him. 

“You might be allowed more leeway than I ever was, but don’t think you are any different.” He bent forwards, making sure they were eye to eye. 

“You and I, we don’t belong to ourselves. There is nothing we have that _they haven’t given us_.”

He shook his head. It wasn’t true. 

“Don’t you understand?” Achilles asked, voice pleading this time. 

“You think you can give something of yourself to me? It is not yours to give.” 

It was. He could give all of himself to Achilles, and he would. If he could make the other man see it - 

“You don’t know who it is who has you?”

He shook his head again, more firmly. No one had him. He might have served the troupe, but he belonged to himself. 

“ _Menelaus_.” 

And the name might as well have been the sound of defeat, the way he felt his shoulders slump hearing it. He kept shaking his head, but there was no mistaking the ring of truth in Achilles’ words. 

The world could have gone on without them, but it demanded they stay. It demanded with a force so powerful they did not have the strength to deny it. 

The magic of the stage had done its trick. For a few moments, he had truly believed. He had been the audience, blinded by the illusion. And now it melted away, brutal and cutting. 

“You see it, just as I do.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see any more. He didn’t even hear Achilles leave the room.


	16. Chapter 16

The cup was warm as he held it against his head, steam wafting up and making his skin clammy. He’d made some tea and was nursing a headache, one that had arisen at his first taste of wine. 

It still sat heavy and warm in his belly. He didn’t know how others could stand it. The taste was sweet and fruity on his tongue, laced with a sharp bitterness he couldn’t quite escape. 

“You’ll get used to it,” he’d heard people say. 

The drink of laughter and merriment, red as the blood running through their veins. He couldn’t fathom how it could be, not when it felt like someone had poured a sleeping draught into his glass instead. 

He thought of red against the walls, seeping between the floorboards. He thought of broken pottery, the edges sharp and glinting. It had been enough to stop at the first sip. 

Many days he’d waited. He’d felt his pulse race at the thought of them crossing paths. And they’d come close to it. 

He’d heard Achilles’ door slide open and closed. He’d quickened his steps hoping to catch sight of the other man, then slowed them immediately. 

They didn’t have anything to say to one another. Yet it felt like a million words - catching in his throat, coming up through his chest, filling his lungs until the air threatened to burst out. 

They could pretend nothing had happened. They could pretend they knew each other no better than the days before their performances together. 

But it hurt to think of it. The thought of never knowing Achilles, of becoming a stranger with the walls between them - it kept him up at night, gazing at his ceiling until it blurred in his eyes, Xanthus and Balios calling him.

He’d tried to ignore them, tried to ignore the image of Achilles’ expression when the horses greeted him on the stage. That surprise and wonder, at something _he_ had made. 

In the end he’d given up. He’d taken Xanthus and Balios and clutched them close to his chest, fingers idly pulling their strings to make their legs move.

However little he could have of Achilles. 

Cotton and stick and string. 

Something he could touch, because the rest of it only lived in time that had gone past.   
\---------------

“You could do it by yourself,” Menelaus said, refilling the tea cup and shuffling through his papers. 

Patroclus looked up, squinting against the glare of light outside the windows. His head was now throbbing, and he really wished someone would put out those damned lanterns. Even in the troupe’s worst times, Odysseus had insisted on keeping them lit the entire night. His lodge could be seen from streets away, and that was how he liked it. 

“You’ve been rehearsing on your own for weeks. The audience doesn’t need shadow theater to come to see your act. It’s you they want. The brilliant young illusionist. Perhaps it’s a sign.” 

A sign for what? He frowned at Menelaus, wishing the man would speak more clearly. As if Odysseus’ control wasn’t enough to worry over. 

“Think about it. You and Achilles will perform the flower’s life for a final time on the stage. It will be a good way to end the show season. And … a good way to end your partnership.” 

The words made him start. _End_ their partnership? 

There was no act without them both. That was the whole _point_. He thought of how Xanthus and Balios had come to know Achilles, even answered to him at times. The thought of that stage without the other man … it made him go cold with a sudden loneliness. 

“No need to look so down, Patroclus. It would be a new beginning. Odysseus might be stuck in his ways, but - he’s always marched to the beat of his own drum. It doesn’t mean _we_ have to.” Menelaus’ easy smile was there as always, but Patroclus could sense a certain carefulness in his expression that hadn’t been there before. 

He hunched his shoulders and pressed the hot tea cup against his forehead again. This was the last thing he wanted to hear, if he could help it.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tired of his room, he had gone downstairs for some fresh air. As much as he tried to go back to sleep, his mind was awake as soon as dawn broke. It was strange, seeing the moon still in the sky. 

It would take its time, the white circle of its face greeting him after the night before. 

_Hello again_ , it seemed to say. 

Some things were a constant, he thought. But the way the sky changed colors, lavender behind the moon when the day before it had been grey … how could one _not_ believe? No matter how tired he got, eyelids heavy as he tried not to gaze at the room across the way … each day brought something new. 

Today the sky was purple. What would it be tomorrow? 

A carriage was in the driveway, grinding to a halt as the sound of the whip echoed against the cool silence. The door swung open and a group of passengers filed out, costumes gleaming, chattering animatedly despite the earliness of the hour. 

He turned his back, already heading towards his room for solitude. 

“Patroclus!” 

Footsteps against the pavement, running towards him. 

He barely had time to turn before a body collided against his, nearly making him keel over; but then the arms were around him, strong and familiar. 

Soap and sweat and Antilochus. He could feel his eyes sting at the same time the laughter came out. In the distance, the Sparrows were colorful figures already scattering. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d seen them at the lodge.

“Don’t you ever sleep in?” Antilochus’ voice was warm in his ear, amusement and affection all at once. He found himself clinging. 

It was a few minutes before his friend drew back, holding him at arm’s length and looking him up and down. 

“Hey, you’re not supposed to look different.”

Antilochus smiled to show he was joking, and pulled Patroclus into another hug. 

“Oh, Patroclus,” he sighed melodramatically. “I was wasting away with loneliness without you.” 

It made him snort with laughter - Antilochus, always knowing what to say at the right moment. The sadness was gone, and it was as though they had never left childhood. 

He poked Antilochus hard in the chest. 

_Where have you been?_ he wanted to say. _Where have we both been?_

It was a testament of how confining the lodge could be, the arena - only a few walls, yet enough to separate them. 

They walked up to the performers’ wing together, and he felt himself relax as Antilochus chattered away, overflowing with tales from the Sparrows’ dome and their new performances. 

“At this rate, Eurypylus is never going to retire - we’ve thrown him _three_ going-away parties. Three!” 

They reached Patroclus’ room, and his heart gave a little leap when Antilochus sat on the bed as though he’d never been away. 

He listened, hoping his friend would never stop. He had missed this. It was like the sun and the moon, always unceasing with the changing of the hours. Wouldn’t they be missed if they were absent for a time? 

“Enough talk,” Antilochus announced, kicking his feet up. 

“I read about you in the paper, you know.”

Patroclus flushed, then felt a sudden frustration that Antilochus had never seen a single performance. Every night on the stage, he had thought of his friend. He had created the shadow theater so the Sparrows could fly free. It simply wasn’t fair. 

Antilochus gave him a knowing look. 

“I make sure to get the serial every week. It sounds wonderful. I’m sure it’s wonderful.” 

He smiled at the words. 

They sat together, and he showed Antilochus his latest drawings, everything he had planned for him and Achilles to perform at their next shadow act. 

“Do you ever wonder what Phoinix would say?” Antilocus asked, leafing through the final sketches. 

He and Patroclus stared at each other, and then burst into laughter. 

“That grumpy old man,” Antilochus said. He screwed his face up, mimicking their caretaker’s stern expression so closely that for a moment, it was like the old man was in the room with them. 

“I do miss him at times,” Antilochus admitted reluctantly. “Never thought I would, but I do.” 

Patroclus didn’t blame him. How often had he himself longed to be back at the house in Polis Mater? He thought of Phoinix all alone, the sound of his walking stick tapping against the floor. 

Silence had fallen between them, memories of the old house making the air thick. Underneath Antilochus’ carefree expression, his eyes were sad. There would never be a time when he stopped wanting to chase that sadness away. 

Some things might have changed between them - but at the heart of it all, they were the same two boys who had grown up in the house together. 

A face not much older than his own, peeking in at him through the doorway. 

He tapped Antilochus on the shoulder and held out his two fists. 

“Wait,” Antilochus said, eyes growing wide in disbelief. 

“There’s no way -” he laughed aloud when the palms were opened, revealing the red candy inside.

“ _Where_ do you hide these?” He leaned forward and rummaged through Patroclus’ pockets, checked the blankets and under the bed. 

“All these years, you’d think I would have figured it out by now!” 

Patroclus could only smirk at him. Some secrets were his to keep, some ways only he knew to lift his friend’s spirits. 

_Crinkle crinkle crinkle_. 

Always a battle, trying to ward off the darkness that came with both past and future. Antilochus had taught him the importance of living in the moment - the here and the now; it was something he might not have learned to cherish without his friend.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Music. Each note drifting up from the streets, finding their way to the empty space of his room. 

There had once been a time when he’d lain in bed listening, laughing at the crude drinking songs, merry voices coming and going in the back alleys around the lodge. 

Now it was the sounds of the band, weaving in and out of earshot, one last song on this endless night. 

He craned his neck to hear, soft melodies telling him the festival was over. Another Harvest Moon. How many would he see go by?

He heard laughter, he heard chatter. Groups of people dispersing as they made their way home, the taverns closing up for the night. 

He’d once imagined himself to be one of those people. And laughed at the absurdity of it. 

He thought of that face watching his laughter, catching him in a moment. 

Seeing him. Always seeing. 

It must have been morning, but the lodge was as well-lit as any other banquet night with the patrons. That long street, letting everyone know of its importance in the city. 

How well-hidden they were, lowly figures in a grand castle. If someone took the lights away, would they finally see the dark face of the lodge, the bars on its windows? 

_Let the curtains fall away_ , he thought. He glanced at Xanthus and Balios, hanging by his bedside on their feeble strings. 

_Let the illusion fall away_. On this one night that was supposed to be of celebration and wonder, he felt a longing for what lay beneath. 

How long would he have to find the truth, when all he saw was the brightness on the surface? Sooner or later, the enchantment pulled everyone in. It was up to him to break the spell. 

It was like a story he had heard, of a distant land below the earth. Down and down they went, through the tunnels, beneath the soil. And finally, the outline of a palace, thousands of candles lighting up the exterior, music and dancing. It was a place where time stood still, where one could get caught up in the dancing and never stop. 

He imagined himself among the festivities, a pair of arms around him sweeping them across the dance floor; the clinking of glasses and laughter light as bells. 

He found himself looking down, wondering why his feet hurt so much. 

Only to find that he had been dancing forever, his feet sore and bleeding on the perfect polished floor - forgetting the world above. 

He tried to get away, to wrench himself from the arms. They only tightened around him, forcing him to stay in rhythm. Before his eyes, the golden lights were falling away, the exterior of the palace crumbling stone by stone. And he was left in a sea of devastation, another lost soul swaying to music that was not there. 

He fought, he clawed, he opened his mouth willing a scream to come out. But even in the depths of his mind, his voice could not be summoned. 

He had to put the lights out. He had to make everyone see. And only then, the dancing would stop, and he would be allowed to return to the world above. 

The sound of voices outside made him jump. 

He had gone into another daydream, he realized. All these stories. Soon enough they blended together, until he didn’t know what was real or what was not anymore. 

He shook his head, feeling the hard floor beneath his feet, inhaling the fragrant air from the garden outside. All things that would ground him, bring him back to where he was. He had been losing himself lately, wondering how long he could stand the loneliness. 

He rushed up to the window and peeked out, getting a glimpse of the room across the way. Its orange light settled the uneasiness within him, made him take a deep breath in relief. 

_Those damn lanterns_. He gritted his teeth watching them, what had once been a comfort, a marker of his home. 

They made the lodge a glimmering palace. They made people believe in it as surely as it was a land of music and dancing. 

He was stuck below the earth, and he needed to find his way out. 

Sometimes his body moved before his mind could catch up. He had barely registered that he was out of the door, legs carrying him down the steps. He barely felt the cool air of the night, the sharp pebbles on the road sticking to his feet. 

There was a warm breeze, and he stopped for a moment, gazing up at the long street beyond the entrance of the lodge. Many times he had been struck by its beauty, but now the lanterns above him swayed threateningly. 

_Not anymore_ , he thought. _I am going to watch the palace crumble_. 

He reached up and grabbed at its tassels, pulling and pulling until it ripped off its hook. The paper was hot beneath his fingertips, the fire within nearly blinding him. He leaned forward and blew it out.

And now it was just a paper lantern, broken and worn in his hands. He looked it over in satisfaction. He looked out at the street again, all the ones just like it burning through the darkness. 

They were not untouchable. He would take them all, and tear them away from his sight. And then the lodge would be nothing but an old building, nothing but what it had been all along. 

It was a new dance he had invented for himself, his feet making patterns on the hard road, circling towards each nook, tearing down the lanterns until his arms were full of them. 

He could feel his heart beating fast, holding them against his chest. 

Paper. Just paper. 

The street was getting dark, a shadow over the lodge from the moon hiding behind the clouds. It was deserted, the last of the festival crowds having gone inside ages ago. 

It was peaceful, and it was surreal, watching the light go off one by one. It was a day of rest he had been waiting for, the colors of a painting washed away to make room for something new. 

And so he danced, across the pavement, and his feet really were getting sore, but this time there was no panic, no horrid realization of where he was. His spirit was free, his eyes seeing the truth. And no one had power over him, even just in this moment. 

“You’ve lost your mind.” 

His feet slowed, and he turned slowly, the paper lanterns scattering to the ground. 

_Can’t find you in the darkness_ , he thought, but he could just about make out Achilles’ form, and it made him smile. 

_I can. I can after all_. 

There was the moon, always guiding his path, and its silvery light helped him find the one he had been looking for. There had always been a way. It had just taken him a while to realize it. 

“Getting tired of the light?” Achilles’ voice carried through the air between them, but Patroclus could hear the amusement in it. 

He pointed at the lanterns, lying limp at his feet, at the remaining few he was about to tear down. 

_Just paper_. He wanted to say it so badly, but he thought Achilles heard him anyway. 

_It can’t hurt us_. 

The seconds went by when he wasn’t certain how Achilles would react. 

He could feel a sharp ache in his chest; a longing. He wanted the other man to stay with him, to watch the palace crumble together. He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted it. 

“What are you waiting for?” Achilles asked, eyes never leaving his face. They were nearly black in the shadows, glinting at him like a wild animal. But he had stopped being afraid. He knew who Achilles was, and he had let go of his fear. 

“They’re not going to get down by themselves.” Achilles jerked his chin at the remaining lanterns, a lonely glow at the end of the street. 

He grinned, racing up to them and pulling them off their hooks. The street was nearly pitch black now, and when he turned his head, all he saw of the lodge was a building in the distance, unimportant. 

Achilles bent and picked up some of the fallen lanterns. 

They met in the middle, just the two of them in the empty street. 

“Missed me?” Achilles asked.

And Patroclus leapt into his arms, the paper flying out from their grasp, the darkness protecting them from the eyes of the lodge. 

He put his hands on Achilles’ face, touched his nose against the other’s. The ache inside him was settling, the feeling of warm skin soothing it away. 

They had time. It was an endless night, much like the two of them finding each other in the noisy crowd of a theater, a year ago now. He had spent so long searching.   
\------------

Through the streets they raced, hearts light, hand in hand. Behind them, the paper lanterns trailed, tied together like a string of kites. 

They didn’t stop even when they reached the old arena. They didn’t stop when they were up the steps, the rotting wood creaking beneath their feet, the dust brushing against their eyes. 

It was up in the rafters, carelessly balancing themselves on the wooden beams, when they found their spot under the sky. Just a little ways away, the ceiling gave way to the open top of the arena.

An eye out into the darkness. A seeing eye, but one that watched for the world beyond. 

His feet were dangling, his side pressed up against Achilles. There was nothing remarkable about the sky that night, just a blanket of clouds. 

“Could you imagine a sky made of glass?” Achilles asked. 

They squinted up at it, wondering how soft the clouds really were. 

“The world as we know it, enclosed by a wall we didn’t know was there. I wonder what it would take to break through.”

Achilles picked up a bent paper lantern, holding it in his hand for a moment. A flame erupted from his fingers, making Patroclus start, engulfing the lantern in heat. 

They watched as the edges browned and crackled, curling away from Achilles’ palm. 

“Should we find out?” Achilles lifted his hand, the heat growing stronger, making the air in the lantern rise until it floated away from them. 

It was like a message carried on the wind, watching their lantern drift further and further away, until it was out the open top of the arena, out against the black sky. 

A single light, sent across to the world that lay afar. 

They watched as the paper burned away, until it was nothing but a flaming orb in the distance. If the sky was made of glass, it would be snuffed out before they knew it. 

But the seconds ticked by, and it endured, rising past the clouds until it was lost from their sight. 

“Your turn.” 

Patroclus puzzled at Achilles’ words, looking around him at the worn out lanterns on the wooden beams. He only had to blink before they were lit again, a part of Achilles’ fire finding its way in each one. 

So long he had gazed at them, hanging in the streets. Now they belonged to no one. 

He and Achilles would release them, a simple message to the great beyond. 

The here and the now, he thought. 

They were here. They were now. 

And the lanterns would burn, the surest proof that they endured no matter what the city had taken from them. 

He picked one up, watched it float away as the heat became too much. His fingers burned, but he didn’t care, seeing it rise as the paper melted around it, going higher and higher.

One by one they sent them off, each joining the others in the sky. 

They were like fireflies in summer, flickering around the trees, gathering in a column so bright their glow reached the clouds. 

He thought they would wait there until the fire died out. He leaned against Achilles, the last one floating out of the open top. 

They waited and they waited. But the lights never stopped burning, even when they were lost against the wind. He thought perhaps, it was the soul of Achilles’ fire, an art that lived on even when it could no longer be shown. 

He would have stayed there forever. There were some sights he could never forget, some in the distant past that would never escape his memory. 

But this one - he thought perhaps it was a part of him, one that would stay even when he closed his eyes. Even when the moment was over, he had only to call to it - and it would be there.   
\-------------

They strolled through the alleys, stopping every once in a while to turn back. He thought the sun had started to rise, but realized it was the lights they had released into the air - reflecting off the clouds, turning them golden, spreading out into an orange sky. 

He felt he had joined them, spirit soaring, until he was high up above the city. 

The clouds had parted to make way for the lights, and he thought that patchwork of color behind them - the heavens, glimpsed between the blink of an eye. 

He stopped and stared, feeling Achilles’ hand in his, fingers wrapped tight around his own. 

“Half the time I wonder what it is you’re thinking of.” 

He met Achilles’ eyes, caught the edge of his smile. 

Achilles reached up and cupped his face in both hands. 

“Where are you now?” Achilles asked. 

Watching him, always watching, as though if he looked hard enough he could catch a glimpse of the images behind the eyes. 

_Here_. It rang so loud in his head he thought he had spoken it. 

He was right here. And there was no other place he would rather be. 

He touched Achilles’ lips as though he could place the words there, stroked the sides of his neck. 

As if Achilles sensed what he wanted to say, he pulled them close. 

He thought the other’s hands were what held him at the seams, the way his body threatened to fall apart at the first touch of their lips. There was something breaking, perhaps the walls they had built in desperation, to protect one another. 

It was with this desperation that they reached out, because if they could tear down those walls, and set the sky ablaze, then they were free. Even if it was only in moments, stolen from the time of the passing world around them. 

“Take me with you, then,” Achilles said, and kissed him again. 

The two of them in an empty street, while the sounds of the city moved out of reach.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lodge was quiet by the time they got back. They tiptoed past the rooms in the performers’ wing, straining their ears to listen for voices. 

“Everyone’s asleep,” Achilles whispered in his ear, and it made him shiver. 

The other man had one arm around him, leading him down the hallway. 

They were a few steps from Achilles’ room. He felt his heart beating ever louder the closer they went. 

“Achilles!” 

Achilles jumped so violently they both would have keeled over. 

He grabbed them both and rounded the corner, pressed against the wall opposite his room. 

Agamemnon’s voice was clear in the halls, calling for Achilles. A few seconds and they would have run into him. 

They could hear his footsteps now, leaving Achilles’ room to search for him outside. 

“Over here,” Achilles hissed, tugging at Patroclus’ arm and ducking beneath a doorway, where they would be hidden from view as Agamemnon passed by. 

“Achilles!” His voice was even louder now, and they could see his shadow lingering against the wall. 

Patroclus held his breath, pressed up against Achilles. He could hear the other’s heartbeat, feel his hair brushing against the side of his cheek. 

A few torturous seconds went by where Agamemnon would not leave. They waited in the dark, both of their gazes glued to the man’s shadow in front of them. 

Finally, the shadow disappeared, and they could hear Agamemnon’s footsteps fading, his voice growing fainter as he continued to search for Achilles. 

“He’ll come back and wait in my room if he doesn’t find me,” Achilles stated. He looked torn, one hand still gripping Patroclus’ tight. 

_Don’t go_ , he could have said. His fingers squeezed Achilles’, hanging on as if his life depended on it. 

_He won’t find us_. 

Achilles stared back at him for a moment, searching. He seemed to make up his mind.

“Lead the way.” 

They could still hear Agamemnon calling, even as they crept past the performer’s wing, to the stairs that led up to the servants’ quarters. He could sense Achilles’ confusion growing, but his resolve only strengthened the further they went. 

There was one place Agamemnon would not think to look. 

A lone window, waiting for the moon. 

He wouldn’t have to be alone here anymore, he thought with a grin, ushering Achilles through the door on the top floor. 

His old room had not changed. Down to the stiff mattress on the floor, the cold air. The window was covered in a sheen of grime. No one had been in here since he had left. 

They shut the door and pressed their ears to it, listening. No one had come up after them. 

He waited another minute, then pulled Achilles close, burying his nose in the other man’s neck to breathe in his scent. 

All those years up here, shivering under his blanket. All those years with an emptiness he could not name. Now he felt none of it. 

Achilles’ skin was warm against his, and his heart was full. His eyes stung to think of it, but it only made him grasp the other man tighter. 

He didn’t know how long they stood there, until Achilles pulled back and looked at him. 

“Where have you taken me?” the other man asked, softly so his voice did not carry. 

Somewhere only the two of them existed, he thought with a smile. He glanced at the grimy window, thinking of the boy who had gazed out of it, dreaming of color and light. 

Achilles placed a hand under his chin and turned his face back gently. He hardly had time to catch his breath before their mouths were drawn together again, Achilles moving against him until he was lightheaded. 

He ran his hands through the other man’s hair, feeling its softness again. He trailed them over the broad span of his shoulders, down the planes of his chest, around the narrowness of his waist. 

He found the skin underneath the smooth fabric of the robes, felt Achilles’ mouth leave him for a second - only to press against his neck, down to his throat, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh. 

He had the smallest hint of courage, just then - reaching out and touching Achilles below the waist, finding the knots at his robes and loosening them. He felt his pulse race all the way down to his fingertips, heard Achilles’ breath hitch. 

But the other man found Patroclus’ wrists and gripped them firmly. They stayed like that for a minute, frozen, unsure how to proceed. He looked up, daring to meet Achilles’ eyes, and the other stared back at him. 

_Want you_ , he thought, willing the words to reach the other man. 

His face flushed as he thought it, but he held Achilles’ gaze. 

He saw uncertainty flicker in the eyes, the sea of thoughts below the surface. 

He reached out again, hands brushing Achilles’ waist, but the other held him fast, hands around his wrists, an automatic reflex out of defense. 

Years that had flown by. He recognized the feeling, foreign hands over him, claiming his skin until he wished he would not be touched anymore. He thought he could see it flashing by in Achilles’ eyes. 

When faced with having someone he actually wanted, he didn’t know if he would be able to stand it. The thought overwhelmed him - but it also excited him. He stared at Achilles, willing him to know it. 

Achilles seemed to weigh it in his mind. He still held Patroclus away from him, but his gaze softened. 

“Do you want to see me?” he asked.

Patroclus nodded, and waited until Achilles had settled, until his grip loosened around him. 

Slowly, Achilles undid the fastenings of his robes, inch by inch falling away until his skin was bared to Patroclus’ eyes. He shrugged the clothes off, pulled Patroclus against him again. 

He laid his cheek against Achilles’ chest, waited for the warmth to seep right through him. 

“It’s cold in here,” Achilles muttered, and led them over to the mattress, pulling back the covers and settling them both underneath. 

They lay there pressed against the other, listening to their breathing, willing away all the echoes of times past. Perhaps they would carry it with them, always. There were certain scars that could not be undone, wounds that had healed over but still left angry red flesh behind. 

He ran his hands over Achilles’ chest, over his hips. He held his breath and sat up to remove his own clothes, so they could lie skin to skin, and it wouldn’t matter how long they had to wait. 

Achilles kissed him, kissed his neck, the groove in his chest where the collarbones met. Here was one way they did not know each other yet, but he thought they could learn. 

Slowly, perhaps. There was time. 

They had stolen time for themselves, in his little room with the lone window.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He sat up with his blankets to his chest, his face stretching with a smile even though it was the middle of the night. 

Just hours ago, and it played in his head as though it still happened. 

He remembered the way Achilles’ mouth had felt against him, the heat of him beneath the sheets. He could still feel the other’s fingers dragging against his skin, and how he had thought of the touch as his alone. 

Who else would have touched him in that way? 

There was no one. No matter what had happened in the past, in his years at the guesthouse. They hadn’t known him, hadn’t truly felt him. He had just been a body, nameless behind the closed doors. 

Now he was someone real, someone who could feel, who could love and be loved. It chased away all those demons, snuffed out the angry ache he had brought with him all these years at feeling like he was nothing. 

But he wasn’t nothing. He had never been. He only wished that boy had known, the one who had hidden under the blankets crying himself to sleep. 

He knew now. And the feeling stayed with him, unwilling to leave even when he had to get out of bed and return to the world of the arena.   
\---

The carriage swayed and jerked against the bumpy road, the clapping of the horses’ hooves keeping him from nodding off. 

Another day at the arena, alone on the stage. 

He thought he had gotten used to it, but sometimes he imagined Achilles next to him in the carriage, their fingers woven together. 

He leaned his head out the window, a familiar row of streets coming up. The advertisements from the previous season had been taken down, in favor of new ones for the coming events. 

That was when he caught sight of it. 

He rang the bell, letting the driver know to stop the carriage. 

It halted in the middle of the road, and he was out the door, rushing over to the street full of banners. 

On every doorway, on every wall, was a large poster of a painted figure. 

He stood back and stared, feeling his jaw drop at the familiar image. 

It was so strange seeing himself that way, standing alone in a picture, face serious and eyes flat, too cold and stiff to be anything like what he really looked like. Yet there was no mistaking who it was. 

There was no mistaking the images of Xanthus and Balios behind him, his trademark act. 

The end of a partnership. 

And he had a sinking feeling who was behind it, a dreaded thought of the days that would come, when the stage would be emptied for him alone. 

How much would that image become him, he thought, rendered lifeless by the future someone else had imagined?


	17. Chapter 17

Breakfast was going cold. He stared down at the orange pancakes, two suns on the glazed ceramic. Fists clenched, knuckles turning white as his nails scratched the surface of the table. 

There was a weight in him solid as iron, anchoring him to the floor. There was bile churning in the depth of his gut, the bitterness of its sting bubbling up to the surface. 

“Patroclus?” Menelaus’ soft voice, a hint of concern. 

He kept his eyes on his food, blinking slowly, willing the words away. Letting the truth of the matter slide over him, water off a duck’s back. 

“Surely you understand?” Menelaus hovered even closer to him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

He did not want to hear this. 

“There comes a time when one must leave the nest,” his benefactor explained, unfazed by Patroclus’ silent resistance. Menelaus gave a deep sigh, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked more tired than Patroclus had ever seen him - crows’ feet at the eyes, yet it did not mask the rising excitement reflected in them. 

“I have not broken the news to Odysseus yet - you know how he gets.”

Odysseus? Patroclus could not help but grimace. All these years, Menelaus whispering in the master’s ear, a constant at his side through the highs and lows of the troupe. 

And now this sudden revelation, the ambition that had been lurking beneath the surface all along. 

The master would see it as no less than a betrayal. Patroclus knew it. And he had no doubt that Menelaus did too. 

He dreaded to imagine the look of rage on Odysseus’ face, the grip around him tightening further as the master refused to let go - and Achilles. 

Oh, Achilles. 

He placed a hand on his chest, thinking to steady the sharpening breaths. It was too much - everything he feared to lose, brought about by the man who had offered him a better life, who was responsible for his status in the troupe. 

He even _liked_ Menelaus. In another world, they could have been friends. But he had failed to see through it - all those late nights, reading the weekly serial, the other man’s calm voice instructing him on his letters. 

“ _Think we can learn together_?” 

And they had. He remembered how closely Menelaus studied the performances, the careful diagrams he drew of the show. It should have been a sign of the kind of dream his benefactor chased. 

A warm hand over his made his eyes fly open. Menelaus sat in front of him now, studying his expression in that benevolent way of his. Never impatient, never demanding. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” the other man started. He took Patroclus’ other hand, held it in his with a conviction Patroclus had rarely seen emerge. 

“But there is a future for us, beyond the walls Odysseus has built. There is a future outside the arena, where all the world can witness the art. I once puzzled over how I could ever make it a possibility. But now I know I can - with you. The one who can find magic in the ordinary.” 

Patroclus frowned, and started to pull his hand away. 

“Think about it,” Menelaus reasoned. 

“The first troupe to set foot outside the walls of Polis Thugater. A new era of entertainment, a step apart from the old ways. We could go anywhere we want.”

_Anywhere_. 

It gave him pause, an image coming to mind of the valley below the mountains, the distant outline of the city before him. How many more could be found in the endless land that stretched beyond? Ones that his gaze had never touched. 

Cities, and towns. 

He had never dared to think of the real world beyond Polis Thugater. Anything he had dreamed of had been the creation of his thoughts, too strange and dreamlike to be feared. 

And here Menelaus was, telling him it was a world that could be reached. That there were cities and towns they could go to, far away from the entrapment of Polis Thugater. 

A brand new troupe the likes of which had never been seen before. 

He placed a hand over his forehead as though he could contain the rush of his thoughts. He closed his eyes again, shielding himself from the hopefulness of Menelaus’ stare.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thoughts rang loudest in the quiet hours, a never ending river flowing to the rhythm of the seconds. He didn’t know where the strength of his heartbeat began, but the anvil of his chest echoed with its peal. 

He opened his eyes to pitch darkness, letting them settle until they found the outline of Achilles’ body next to his. 

He could have used this, he thought, running one hand over the plane of the ribs, the groove in the waist just above the hip. On those lonely nights shivering under his blanket, he could have used this warmth. The air of the room sat cold and still on his exposed skin, but underneath the covers, it was toasty as an oven. 

Lit coals, crackling in their heat, warming him down to the core. 

He thought of them as he pressed himself against Achilles, chest to chest, belly to belly - his thigh wrapped around the span of Achilles’ side. 

Not an inch of skin untouched. 

He could feel the fine hairs over Achilles’ stomach, the part of his chest that dipped with each breath. And the length of his hair, splayed out over the pillow, a silken cover against his cheek. 

He sensed the minute Achilles’ eyes opened and met his in the dark. Too little light to see, but the weight of his stare would always burn. Like looking at a fire too long, the smoke rising and stinging at the eyes. 

His little room with the lone window. 

Yet in these hours, they were somewhere else. Perhaps it was their own shadow world, away from the demands of the stage. At a time when the natural world and the supernatural overlapped, they could find their moments, concealed from the outside and its hold on them. 

Soft and awake. When he reached out his dreams were at his fingertips, so much that he thought Achilles would see them if he were only to touch him. 

They had wanted to know everything about the other. 

And he thought, lying here with Achilles warm and real beside him, there was no end to what could be known. 

He took what he could and stowed it away to be kept close to his heart, but one day all that was left would be memories of what had been. 

Moments could not live forever. So he touched Achilles, and he loved him, in the hope that some part of it would be kept alive in any way his soul knew how. 

There was a sting in his eyes as he came to terms with this, a lingering throb that wouldn’t go away. 

_His_ , he willed, as if the forces of the supernatural would hear him and answer his prayer. 

Achilles, _his_. 

Whether the outside took him or not, the sound of his name burned as though it had been branded into his heart. 

He didn’t know when he had started asking. But like a child with a wish, once he started, he could not stop. It stayed at the back of his mind no matter the day, a silent request. 

To the rain, the river, the sea. Any part of the waking world that had ever listened to him. 

“What is it?” Achilles asked, voice clear against the silence. 

His eyes flew open, he hadn’t realized he had squeezed them shut as he wished. 

He stared at Achilles, finding the points of his face in the violet light. The night had passed just enough, until the time they had could be felt slipping away - a few hours more. A few hours was what they had. 

Achilles had shifted, leaning against his elbow so he was hovering above Patroclus. His face a hair’s breadth away. 

There was a catch in his throat. His pulse was unsteady, the thoughts and requests immediately blending together until he was unsure what he wanted to say. There were many times like this, when he wished for all the world that he had the power of speech. 

How special it must be, to say words meant for someone precious to him. 

Words of trust, of hope, of affection. Oaths of loyalty, of protection, of companionship. Even sweet nothings. Ones that would make Achilles smile at him. 

“You can tell me anything,” Achilles whispered, and stroked a thumb over his lips. 

He shook his head. There were some things he didn’t know how to tell. Some images he could not bear to show. 

Achilles was watching him, waiting for a reply. 

When none came, he lowered his head and pressed his lips against Patroclus’, turned and kissed his jaw, the hollow of his throat. 

“Anything,” he said again, gaze as serious as it always was. 

The seconds ticked by. He reached up and traced a finger over Achilles’ face. Tracing the letters into his skin, as though they could be heard that way. 

He didn’t know how he looked right then, but there must have been something in his expression that caught Achilles off guard. He saw the way the eyes deepened, saw the moment Achilles made up his mind.

“Then perhaps _I_ should tell you something,” Achilles said. 

He brought Patroclus’ face to his until they were nose to nose.

“There is a corner of your mouth, right there, that is asking to be kissed.” 

And he kissed him. And kissed him, and kissed him, until they could not think to stop, until the time slipped past like sand in the hourglass, but it didn’t matter - not with the way the heat between them multiplied, and how he could see the edges of Achilles’ fire when he closed his eyes.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Knock knock.” 

He sat up in bed and rubbed at his eyes, it was grey and cloudy outside. 

Antilochus’ face peeked in at him from the doorway, boyish grin spreading over his features. 

“Want to go for a walk?” 

It made him sit up straighter, letting the covers fall away. He got up and went to the door, opening it wider to let Antilochus in. 

“I can’t believe you’re still in bed!” But Antilochus hardly waited for a response, already starting to chatter about the Sparrows and his day off. 

Come to think of it, the other man had been in high spirits lately. Patroclus was content to listen, the familiar sound of his friend’s voice washing over him as he found his day clothes and made to get ready. 

“Hurry up,” Antilochus whined. 

“There’s a bird’s nest in that tree of yours, I want to climb up and get the eggs -” he burst into laughter when Patroclus frowned at him. 

“Just kidding. Of course I won’t take the eggs. But they’re shiny and speckled. You’ll love them.” 

He nodded, thinking of the shiny black stones he had paused to pick up along the riverbed as a boy. Things that sparkled and shone. They had always drawn him in. And where had it gotten him? 

He wrapped his robe around himself, making a show of it to get Antilochus to quit rushing him. 

“Look at you in your fancy clothes,” Antilochus remarked, a touch of affection in his voice. 

He smiled back. It had always been easy between them. The months might have passed where the chance to see each other grew less and less, but - 

He paused, a glint against Antilochus’ neck catching the light. His gaze roamed until it settled on his friend’s collar. A second or two went by where he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. And then he felt his stomach give way. 

Nestled against the starched white fabric of Antilochus’ shirt was a pin with a blue butterfly. The light reflected off of it, but the wings were clear beneath the surface of the glass. It brought him back to a night of fireworks, sparks against the sky showing the symbol of his benefactor. 

“What -” Antilochus started, seeing his expression. 

They both stared down at the pin. 

“Look, I -” 

Patroclus shook his head, one hand coming up to touch it, making sure it was real. Before he knew it, that hand was shoving Antilochus away, the blood rising to his face, pounding in his ears. 

“Patroclus!” 

He didn’t want to hear. He didn’t. 

“You don’t understand, Patroclus!” Antilochus said his name over and over again. 

“Won’t you _listen_!” 

Menelaus, a new troupe unlike any that had been seen before. And he would take the Sparrows with him. 

“He would have us return to the sky! Don’t you see? We can fly free again!” 

Antilochus grabbed Patroclus’ arms, ignoring the angry shoves. 

“Listen to me. _Listen_.” 

_Listen, listen_. All he had ever done was listen. 

“I should have told you. I know I should have.” Antilochus sighed and rubbed at his forehead. 

“We tell each other everything. When did that stop?” 

When, indeed? He glared at his friend with all his might. He pulled away from Antilochus’ grasp, but the other man held him tight. 

“He has a vision. He has a way to bring back the glory days of the flight groups, where it won’t matter what city we’re in. Don’t you see, Patroclus? It’s everything I could have hoped for.”

Antilochus’ voice had gotten soft, laced with that same sadness that had become a part of him through the years in the dome. The dome he hated. 

“You have to see it. You have to.” 

He saw it. And he wanted no part of it. 

He began to struggle again, but Antilochus would not let him go. They fell onto the edge of the bed, and before he knew it he had both hands crumpled in the fabric of his friend’s shirt, silently pleading. 

The Sparrows _couldn’t_ go. The walls were falling apart, and he didn’t know what was to be done. 

“Hey,” Antilochus said. 

He pulled the covers right over them, just as they always had in their childhood days. 

“I know it will be hard to leave. But there is hope for us. Outside the city. I want you to come, Patroclus.” 

He frowned, unable to look Antilochus in the eye. 

“I _need_ you.” 

He clamped his mouth shut. 

“What do I have otherwise? You are my friend, my brother, and the only one who has ever understood. _Promise_ me you’ll come.” 

It was a promise he couldn’t make, and how his heart ached to think of it. He squeezed Antilochus’ hand and buried his face in his shoulder. There had been a time when it had just been the two of them. There had been a time when he’d known no other kindness. 

He was torn in two. 

It was a long time before Antilochus rose to go. There would be no walk now, the two of them left to ponder on their own, the choices that would lead them apart from where they had begun. 

He didn’t know how he would ever say goodbye, when the time came. His friend had dreams of the sky, and him - his heart lay elsewhere. 

“Forget what I said. Of course I won’t make you promise.” Antilochus smiled, the light not reaching his eyes. 

They stood in front of each other, for once unsure how to speak to one another. 

Antilochus looked Patroclus up and down, then seemed to look past him, gaze landing in the corner of the room where Xanthus and Balios lay. It stayed there, unmoving. 

“Think about it, at least,” he continued, but there was a knowledge in his eyes just then, one that remained when his gaze met Patroclus’ at last. 

He watched his friend walk out the door, with all the grace that the years had given him. 

“Patroclus?” 

Antilochus turned around, expression solemn.

“You will be careful, won’t you?” 

He nodded, needing his friend to know that he would. 

Cut from different cloths, they had always been. But Antilochus had always known how to listen to him.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hallways were silent as he trudged his way through them, the grey from outside filtering in through the windows; he wondered when the last time he heard music was - not the bright, brassy melodies from the show, but light notes, drifting through the air. 

Making him think of simpler times. 

He paused outside Achilles’ room, thinking of every moment he had stood right there - that door, and the changing seasons outside the window. 

He felt once again a young boy, clutching the tea tray close to his chest. And he felt like himself, weary from the burden of the arena, from the knowledge of change - and afraid of losing what he needed most. 

Movement in the corner of his eye startled him out of his thoughts - he stiffened when he saw who it was, breath held fast in his lungs, too tense to come out. 

Agamemnon’s eye swept over him, each step carrying him closer, the grey light framing his silhouette as he drew near. 

Nothing was said between them - but the sheer power of the older man’s presence, the abruptness of his gaze. It rooted him in place. A familiar fear that had been taking, and taking. The chasm between him and Achilles, all represented in that one man. 

Agamemnon brushed past him, never quite looking away - and he struggled not to make a sound, to keep his shoulders squared, his chin level. Only when the other man was out of his sight did he let out a breath, all the while feeling that the sharpness of that stare would never leave him. 

He slid open the door and stood on the threshold, searching until he found Achilles standing by the window. The shape of him that he had grown to love - he stayed there, taking it in. 

Achilles knew he was there. He didn’t know how he guessed it, but Achilles knew. 

“Just going to stand there all day?” Achilles’ tone was dry, but he turned around and Patroclus could see he was smiling. 

Perhaps he _would_ stand there all day, he thought, if it meant that smile would stay as it was. 

He looked at Achilles, really looked at him. How different he was in daylight, no matter how gloomy the clouds. 

Soft around the eyes. The seriousness of his face made light. 

How real he was. And how far away, even when there were only a few steps between them. 

“Come here,” Achilles said, seeming to guess at his thoughts. 

He closed the distance between them at once, seeing Achilles’ eyes flicker behind him in a second to make sure they were alone. 

He inhaled the other’s scent, laid his cheek against his hair to feel its softness. 

_His, his_. That prayer again, coming up like a chant.

“You have to go with him,” Achilles whispered in his ear. 

He froze.

“You know that.” 

He made to pull back, but Achilles’ nose nudged against his head, hands stroking along his sides. 

“You thought I didn’t know.” 

He hadn’t. He wanted to explain, needed to explain. 

“There is something I’ve always been good at. The waiting game. And hasn’t Menelaus shown through?” 

He did pull back then, and gripped Achilles hard, because he needed him to understand -

“He has made you an offer, Patroclus. And you _must_ take him up on it.” 

He shook his head no. He had made up his mind. No matter what his benefactor had promised, there was nothing that would make him let go of what mattered to him. 

“Patroclus.” 

Achilles lifted his chin, looked him in the eye. 

“He will protect you.” 

He could feel the weight of each word, the importance of what Achilles was trying to tell him. 

Years of fear and uncertainty, of clipped wings set behind a gilded cage. 

_But what about you_? And he knew the question could not be undone once he had thought it. 

“It is not freedom,” Achilles reasoned. 

“But it’s the closest thing there will ever be. And you cannot stand here and tell me that you will throw it away. Not for me, not for the troupe. Not for _fucking Odysseus. Never_.”

He was willing to throw anything away. But he could see that Achilles would not accept it. 

“Do you know something?” Achilles continued, expression softening. 

“There are times I think I know what happiness is. When I’m with you -” there was the smile again, and it faded as quickly as it had arrived. 

“When we’re together -” he sighed, and Patroclus could feel his heart sinking all the way to his feet. 

“It’s a gift,” Achilles said, voice hushed and low as though to keep it from breaking. 

“I think about what I’ve ever done to deserve it, and -” he shook his head, taking Patroclus’ hand. 

“Whether or not I ever did, it’s something you’ve given me anyway. You, and your eyes that see life where there is only water.”

His hand was shaking where it held Achilles’. His face was wet, the thoughts coming to a standstill while the hollowness in him grew. 

_I’m afraid_ , were the words he found. He knew Achilles saw them. 

_I don’t want to let you go_. 

He could see himself crumbling apart at the edges, the silver fish of his memory dancing further out of reach. 

Until it was lost to him for good. 

Years spent chasing a dream, one that had never been his to begin with. 

They stood, hands joined, all the years that had brought them there behind them. 

He’d once wondered where their story began and ended. He could not find an answer.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many times he’d puzzled at why that scent was so familiar. Tobacco smoke, finding its way in every corner of Odysseus’ office. 

He’d never seen the master look so weary. It made his stomach clench in dread, thinking perhaps Odysseus had found out about Menelaus’ plans. 

But there were no clenched fists, no gritted teeth; no venom behind the expression. Odysseus sat at his desk and flicked his pen, the sound a constant thud against the wood. 

He waited for the master to speak. 

“I know it’s been years since your time at the house in Polis Mater, Patroclus.” 

He frowned, the confusion making its way within him. 

“But we all come from somewhere, and it was that house that made you.” 

Odysseus rubbed at the bridge of his nose, clearly troubled. 

“It was some _one_ who made you. It is only right, to honor the wishes of the ones who cared for us when we had nothing.” 

He opened his mouth, the name already forming. But it couldn’t be, could it? Sometimes he wondered if Phoinix even remembered him. 

“His time is coming, Patroclus. And he has asked to see you.” 

All at once the memories came back to him. 

Early mornings dragging water from the cistern behind the house. 

The tap-tap-tapping of a walking stick. 

The paint seeping into the silk. 

A place he had longed for. A place he thought he would never see again.


	18. Chapter 18

Horses’ hooves against the pebbled streets. 

Funny how certain sounds never left him. He watched the houses pass; one, and two. 

The carriage shook all around him, and he placed a hand over his chest to quiet the storm rising inside. 

So much time he had spent in the hope to return. The silk room where he had spent his childhood, wielding the brush. He wondered if anyone used it now. He wondered what he would feel when he saw the old house, the gabled roof and its tiles that a young Sparrow had once crashed into. 

With that thought, he caught Antilochus’ eye, his friend who sat across from him, head lolling between a nap. 

The night Odysseus had made his announcement, he’d found Antilochus at his doorstep, red-eyed. 

There hadn’t been a word said between them. He hadn’t even been able to muster the anger at his friend leaving their troupe behind. They’d stood there, once again the boys under the old man’s care, lamenting the loss of a part of their lives they’d held sacred. 

Now Antilochus snored in the seat opposite, the bumpy ride jerking him awake every few moments. He woke up and stared outside the window - the look on his face - Patroclus thought, then, they must have shared the same expression. 

“He’s going to be so irritated we came this late in the day,” Antilochus mumbled, managing a weak grin, although his words seemed to reassure himself more than anything. 

“Not enough time to prepare dinner for guests.” Antilochus wouldn’t stop fidgeting, drumming his fingers against his knees, craning his neck to check the street as they drew ever closer. 

“So Polis Mater hasn’t changed much. That’s good to know.” 

Patroclus didn’t have the heart to tell him that was a fact he had already learned. Didn’t have the heart to mention how he’d almost left, more than a year ago. On that fateful night where he had learned a little more of Achilles than he’d ever thought to. 

What a hypocrite he was, he grimaced at himself. Unable to bear the thought of his friend leaving the troupe when he - he had almost abandoned them. He hadn’t even said goodbye. 

It made his stomach clench with guilt, and he reached over and grabbed Antilochus’ hand. He didn’t let go even at his friend’s puzzled smile, even when the carriage drew up to the last house in the street, its familiar gabled roof coming into view.  
\---------------------------------------------

The gate was open for them and he thought he couldn’t breathe, remembering so many evenings hauling it open to receive the Sparrows on their flight home. Now, it was some other servant boy breaking his back over the heavy wood - he found himself staring. 

He could see the figure standing at the front of the house, more stooped than he remembered - leaning on his walking stick. 

His feet were unable to move, rooted to the cold stone of the ground. 

An old apprehension, a grudging respect, and … a feeling that had always been his, all those years under the old man’s care. 

That man had beaten him. That man had fed him. That man had taught him, and told him he was worth something, and taken him under his roof when there was nothing else. 

He’d been afraid of him. But he’d loved him, too. 

Antilochus was already on his way over to the house, unable to contain himself. He could almost make out Phoinix’s sharp reprimand, hear Antilochus’ laughter, and even that would not make him move from his spot. 

His heart was aching. It was a pain in his chest so deep at being here, in this very place where he had been brought to by the stroke of some horrid luck. 

What would his life have become if he had never found his way here? 

He had been told to forget. And perhaps it would have been best if he had. But that little boy - he squeezed his eyes shut. 

There was nothing that could have told that little boy to let go, not even if the earth itself had moved to block his view. 

It was here in this house that he had learned to dream. It was here in this house that he had been so far away from Achilles, yet much nearer than he could have imagined. 

It was the thought of the other man that made him move at last, made him walk over to the front of the house and face Phoinix for himself. He’d never dared to think of what the old caretaker would have said about his life on the stage. Now, he found he could take it. 

Phoinix’s gaze had landed on him, those beady black eyes as intense as they had always been. Even in that lined, weathered face, his mouth turned down so distinctly it was like he carried a permanent frown. 

“Good. You’re home. The food is getting cold.” 

Phoinix looked him up and down, gave a near-satisfied grunt, and turned to go back inside. 

“And wipe your damn feet, boy. I won’t have you tracking dirt onto my floor.” 

He let out a breath of relief, the anxiousness at once leaving him. He didn’t know what he had expected. But to see that some things hadn’t changed … he couldn’t help a small smile, the familiar tap-tap-tapping of Phoinix’s walking stick echoing throughout the hallway.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was strange being treated like a guest in the house he had grown up in. 

He watched in surprise as Phoinix moved to pour the tea, spindly hands shaking the whole way. He reached out and stopped the old man, gently taking the pot from him, braving his irritated glare. 

“Eat up,” the old man grumbled. 

But even as they tucked into their dinner, Patroclus couldn’t help keeping an eye on him, and how little he ate. 

A few spoonfuls here and there, heavy breathing and a subtle wince once the food was swallowed. Phoinix might have looked the same, but the years had clearly taken their toll on him.  
\---

His room. 

He stood with a pillow clutched to his chest, taking in the bare walls and hard floor. The little mat, where he had slept until Odysseus had whisked him away. The blanket, that had been protection over two young friends whispering secrets to each other in the middle of the night. 

It even smelled the same.

“Ahem.”

He started, spinning round to see a young man clutching a wooden frame. 

“Sorry to interrupt. Phoinix said to set up a bed for you …?"

The seconds seemed to drift past slowly, as he took in the face and struggled to place it. He stared. 

The young man stared back at him, the wooden frame slowly dipping to the floor. 

And then a grin broke out on the other’s face, and it was in that instant he knew who it was. 

_Teucer_. 

“It’s you!” 

A quick embrace, as though it hadn’t been years since they’d last seen each other. 

He laughed, and he thought he could cry, seeing that friendly expression gazing back at him in an adult face. They clasped at each other’s arms, unable to stop grinning. 

He could hear Teucer start to babble about something, that excitement much the same as he’d had in childhood. But the words escaped him, in his happiness at seeing an old friend again - a face he had thought to be lost. 

“Here, I’ll set up your bed. Oh, but Patroclus, what’s it like? I’m sorry, let me set up the bed.” 

Teucer scratched his head and floundered between sentences, unable to make up his mind of what to say first. He laughed, clapped Patroclus on the back, and ran off to get the mattress and sheets.  
\-------

They sat on the floor, and he could hardly mourn the time that had gone by. In front of him, Teucer had carefully laid out a small row of newspaper clippings. 

Painstakingly cut and collected over the years, some featuring his name, others with a black-and-white photograph of him leaving the arena. 

A part of him couldn’t believe someone had cared enough to look out for him through the years. He had never imagined Teucer would even remember him; and he was deeply touched. 

“Do you remember how we used to watch the performers traveling outside the window?” 

Patroclus nodded, smiling wide at him. 

“Now you’re one of them.” 

Teucer gave a deep sigh. 

“ _Mercy_. You are one of them, Patroclus.” 

He felt his smile fading, heart suddenly beating wildly, wishing he could tell Teucer all that had come to pass. 

Wishing he could recount the truth of the arena, all he had learned of its beauty and the darkness that followed. 

But how could Teucer ever understand? 

It was a chasm that would not be filled, for their lives had gone in separate directions. He was only grateful for a kind soul, a few moments of friendship when he had known little.  
\---

Hours after Teucer had left, he sat up in bed amid the stillness of the room. How little the house had changed - yet it was not the same, because _he_ had changed. 

He closed his eyes and thought of that first night, the two boys on the rafters watching a dancer leap across the stage. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the painting of the fire dance, kept safely next to his heart. 

Some things could be kept alive if he willed it hard enough, he thought, and kissed the painting. 

The dancer on the stage rippled across the fabric, and he drifted off to sleep thinking of the man that dancer had become. 

A city away, and out of his reach. Yet always lingering, the lamp in his window left on only for him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the evenings he and Phoinix took walks around the compound. He kept one eye on the old man’s hunched back, followed every shaky movement. Waited until he was sure the caretaker would not keel over, then fell into step beside him. 

“The fresh air is good for me,” Phoinix claimed. He would tap his chest with one liver-spotted hand, chin lifted in his usual proud stance. 

“A balm to these aged lungs.” 

He never knew how to respond in these moments. The old man had always been a constant figure of authority - his walking stick more weapon than crutch. A resolve like steel and a short temper - that was what encapsulated him. 

But this frail, bony figure - Patroclus did not know what to think. He stayed silent when Phoinix paused during their walks, wheezing. He stayed silent when the old man hacked up the contents of his lungs, face turned away as though it could be hidden. He kept his eyes averted, careful not to land on the blood-spotted handkerchief Phoinix kept in his pocket. 

All the while, the dread grew in him.

Was this what it was like to watch life fade away? He had rarely been around the ill and dying. In Polis Thugater, youth and vitality was prized above all else.  
\---

One of those evenings, Phoinix did not emerge at their usual meeting place. 

“He’s probably asleep,” Teucer shrugged, when Patroclus went in search of him. Despite his nonchalant words, there was no concealing the furtive looks Teucer shot at the other servants. 

Patroclus had never set foot in the old man’s room before. But that day, he let go of all childhood inhibition and knocked on Phoinix’s door, fully expecting to be reprimanded or told to go away. 

He stood outside the door, staring at the dark paneled wood, not realizing that he was shivering. There was something in his chest, something full and heavy, seeming to cling to his insides, weighing him down. 

He heard the old man coughing in his room, and pushed the door open in his urgency. 

It was dark in the room, the curtains pulled shut to block out any light. It smelled strongly of herbs, and an age-old scent he could not name - perhaps it was the scent of sickness, only identified by the bone-deep weariness it caused, the off feeling that something was wrong. 

Phoinix lay on the bed, coughing and coughing, his handkerchief clutched close to his mouth. He stilled when he caught sight of Patroclus - but couldn’t seem to stop himself, every last bit of strength expended to support his breath. 

“Can’t you let an old man rest for a day?” he wheezed, and finally settled down. 

It was quiet, the air heavy between them. 

He didn’t know how long he stood there, hand twitching to find the door and leave the old man be. Leave him. 

But they looked at each other, and he remembered those same eyes watching him. Watching as he picked up his first paintbrush. Watching as he met the master for the first time. Silent protection, and guardianship. All that he had lost with the last of his childhood, the day he set foot in Odysseus’ lodge. 

And now he was losing it forever. 

There had been a small part of him, that had hoped. A hidden part he had never let himself acknowledge. 

He felt a tear trickle down his cheek, and hastily wiped it away. And then another. And another. 

“We all lose to old age in the end,” Phoinix said, voice strained from his damaged lungs. 

“It is the eternal victor. If you did not know that - now is the time to learn.” He closed his eyes for a moment, breaths growing shallow. 

One hand beckoned Patroclus over to the chair next to his bed. 

“No use crying over it,” Phoinix continued, but the expression on his face when he opened his eyes again - no bite to it. 

He simply looked, and Patroclus looked back, the anger at himself for showing weakness melting away. 

“You were a good boy,” Phoinix muttered. 

Somehow the words made the tears come back, blurring his vision. He reached over and found the old man’s hand, thinking he would get slapped away, but Phoinix said nothing further. 

He sat with the old man, feeling the hours pass, seeing the rise and fall of the chest as it slowed with the beginning of sleep.  
\---

Some days were good and others were not. 

Some days, Phoinix had the strength to get up and walk, his walking stick always at the ready. 

Others, Patroclus brought his meals to him, carried the tea tray in as carefully as he had in his days serving the lodge. 

They did not talk. But perhaps in that short time, there was some peace to be found.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tossing and turning. 

Forehead drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his neck. 

He started awake with his chest tight as a screw, fingers finding the sheets around him, unsure to draw them closer or tear them away from himself. 

He wanted Achilles. Every night away he could feel the distance greater between them, and his eyes would search frantically, for the window, for the lights - only to come up empty. 

He sat up and drew his knees closer to his chest, gulping in air, and he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t. 

He begged for someone to hear him, for the lamp in the hallway to come on, footsteps to let him know he was not alone. 

But all these nights. And he stood at the very edge, the vast valley below him; only this time, one wrong breath and he would fall. 

He covered his mouth with his hands and willed his knees to stop trembling. He was afraid of falling. 

It was a fear he hadn’t known, but it crept up close to him, until it was iron around his spirit. 

He forced himself to take a deep breath. He forced himself to accept the fear, to close his eyes and remember - on that day at the mountain, he had not been alone. On that day with green rolling out as far as the eye could see, there had been someone with him. 

Someone who would never let him fall. 

He thought of arms around him, and the scent of fragrant wood. He thought of fingertips warm to the touch, each one touching his skin until he had forgotten about the cold. And he thought of eyes, catching him in a dream. 

_Never let you go_ , he thought, repeated the words over and over in his head, a chant, a prayer. The name of a boy that had been forgotten, found again in the learning of the other. 

Words in his head. Taking him away.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The weariness caught up to him in the daytime. He always woke up before dawn broke, a habit ingrained in him from his time at the arena, an unwillingness of his body to succumb to sleep. 

He could feel it in every joint, his limbs lax and screaming to be put back to bed. But the chill morning air distracted from his heavy heart, and he found himself in the outdoors, shivering in his robes. 

The trees were bare - it was that time of year again. 

And he lamented his own, the plum blossom tree with its pink and white stars, swept away by the wind. He wondered how far they could be carried, if they could ever find their way here. 

He tried not to think of all life dying down, tried not to listen. 

The changing of the seasons, the world lulled to slumber. And his own spirit, hiding away from its call.  
\---

He had not thought of the cistern for a while. But upon circling the grounds, he found it was still there, a great vat holding water for the household. He remembered his hands, weak yet determined, struggling to hold the bucket. 

Had he really been so eager to show someone? he questioned, finding his reflection in the surface of the water. His eyelids were heavy, blinking back at his own silhouette. 

Gone were the times when he had longed more than anything for a feeling he could not name. He had once known a life without the art - and with all it had given him, it had also taken. 

He gazed at the cistern. 

Water. It was just water. What was it in him that was so desperate to find something more? 

“I must say, I didn’t think to find you here.” 

He whipped round, feeling his heart jump in his chest. 

Stared at Phoinix, pale and grey, yet somehow standing before him in the cold. 

The old man stared back at him with a look he had never thought to see from him. 

“I’ve taught you many things in this house, haven’t I?” It wasn’t a question. 

“And I see you have learned much more since. Learned to command the stage. Learned to read and write. All gifts.”

Phoinix’s gaze did not waver, and he found his own confusion growing. 

“Yet I see there is one lesson you refuse to learn. One lesson, that will not be taught until you see the consequences with your own eyes.” The old man’s tone had darkened; he leaned forwards with a keen anger.

Another cough seemed to interrupt him, and he reached down to pull out his handkerchief. 

Only the fabric unfurled to reveal bright colors, paint on rippling silk -

And Patroclus felt himself go still as a statue, turned to ice; the blood in his veins unmoving and frozen. 

In Phoinix’s hand was the painting of young Achilles, the precious dancer of his childhood - the memory of a feeling kept close to his heart. 

He cursed himself. 

Had he left it in his bed? Had he forgotten to tuck it into his shirt? 

The wind picked up and made it billow, and the look in Phoinix’s eyes … there was no escaping it. The old man _knew_. 

He heard a sound come out as he opened his mouth, desperate and keening, but it didn’t matter - Phoinix’s grip was tightening around the fabric. 

“All these years and you never _learned_.” 

Ripping fabric, its sound carrying through the air. 

His own horror, seeing his beloved dancer torn apart, the thread splitting down the middle. Phoinix tore with a vehement rage, fingers shaking all the way, tearing and tearing … 

He was leaping forward before he knew it, a cry sounding out of him, grabbing at the fabric, struggling to protect it - but the pieces lay at his feet, and he couldn’t hold back a sob. Next to him, Phoinix panted, the effort having wasted his strength away. 

He picked up the pieces and clutched them to his chest, seeing the broken boy and the ripped flames, the stage he had painted so lovingly. The old man collapsed to the ground next to him. 

“There is no one to protect you in the city. _No one_. You must let him _go_.”

He shook his head, the anger suddenly finding its way to him. 

All those years, and not a word about who his silks had been made for. Phoinix had known. 

All those years with his head bent, serving the master and the troupe in silence. Who had taught him that? 

Perhaps it had kept him safe. Perhaps it had preserved him. But where had that protection been when he’d needed it the most, in Odysseus’ guesthouse at the mercy of strangers? 

He had grown up learning how to live within a cage. Even when the door was wide open, he would not have recognized it. It had taken something more, something greater than himself, to find the courage to set himself free. 

And here the past was again, everything it represented. Wrenching it away from his hands once again. 

He met Phoinix’s eyes and glared. 

He’d had a home here. He’d been safe and taken care of. 

But he was not the boy from the village anymore. He was not the servant with a tea tray, eyes glued to the floor. 

He had learned to tell the truth with his art, and he had found someone who knew the image of his voice. 

These were the things that made him who he was, more so than a head bent in submission. 

He saw the moment it fell into place, pieces coming together until the picture was right in front of him. 

He saw the moment Phoinix understood. 

“You -” the old man began, face paling with the word. 

A flicker of hope, for a moment. 

And then Phoinix’s features fell flat. 

“You will _never_ see him again.” 

He started to protest, but the old man shook his head. 

He gripped the pieces of fabric even closer to him, but as he tried to get up, strong arms wrapped around him, holding him fast even as he struggled. 

“You will see the consequences, even if I have to keep you in this house until I am dead!” 

He struggled and flailed, turning every which way to glare at Phoinix further. 

“I’m sorry,” Teucer whispered in his ear, regret lacing his tone, even as he dragged him away, finding the silk room and locking him in. 

He was trapped within the walls, pounding at the door, knuckles splitting against the wood. He pounded and pounded, needing Phoinix to listen. 

But nobody listened to him. He was once again the silent child in the silk room, alone in the world with no one to hear.


	19. Chapter 19

Time slowed to a standstill in the silk room. When he opened his eyes it had gotten dark. He willed the shadows to move, to show some sign of life, but they stayed as they were. 

His knuckles were sore from hitting against the door, his fingernails a bloody mess from trying to pry it open. He sat defeated, nursing his wounds, blinking away helpless tears as he took in the room around him. 

The smell of the paint had been so familiar to him that he hadn’t even noticed it was there. The room was clearly in disuse, but there was no taking away what it once had been. Long sheets of silk held up by wooden supports, the pots of color and the brushes. 

He’d once lost himself here. He’d watched blues and greens blending into each other, their brightness seeping away to be held by the cloth. 

The wooden stands had been moved into the corner, left bare without any silk. The pots of paint were still where he remembered, now dried up and empty. He could see himself now, a young boy, mixing the paints and swirling them with his brush. 

It calmed him, imagining the process again, imagining the world outside did not exist save for what happened in this room. 

He shook himself out of it. He knew better. 

That boy had had no other choice. That boy had had no other escape but a cramped room, toiling day after day and breathing in the fumes of the paint. Every tiny detail, every brushstroke, every design etched in wax. It had been a dream world to him, but to the tycoons of Polis Thugater, it had meant nothing beyond its monetary value. 

He laughed to himself, leaning his head back against the door. Odysseus owned the house in Polis Mater. He’d had complete control over the silk production. And he’d sold the completed works to his own patrons, who purchased them for performers in his own troupe. It had never been more than a business. Men like him, who’d made their fortune on the backs of others - all because they knew to recognize art and turn it into gold. 

If he ever made it out of this room, he would have no part of it. As misguided as the old man was, Phoinix had been right in his own way. What was the stage but a playing ground for powerful men?

He’d told his stories, as many others before him had. And like them, he would not stop until he found his own place in the world, one where the art could live on as it was meant to. He was done dancing on strings. He was not made of cotton, his legs moving to the whims of others. 

He thought of the toy horses at his bedside. A childhood curiosity, a simple fascination of the world outside and how their art could touch the lives of others. Perhaps the only part of it that Achilles had known to offer him. 

Their world was so small, yet so vast. It was short-lived, yet unending. He didn’t think he would ever completely understand Polis Thugater. He didn’t think he would live long enough to learn all her secrets. 

Perhaps it was why Menelaus was eager to go. 

He sat in the silk room, in the house he had grown up in. 

_Sky made of glass_ , Achilles had once pondered. 

_What would it take to break through?_  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How long it had been, he couldn’t tell. He lay curled up on the floor, stomach feeling like an empty vat, hurting. He hadn’t thought Phoinix meant for him to starve here. The old man had been harsh, but not needlessly cruel. A line had been drawn. 

The blood had crusted up around his nails, one was missing from his finger. He touched the raw flesh and winced. 

His chest gave a silent heave, and he covered his mouth. The hunger was eating away at him, and his head throbbed; sharp pain concentrated in the temples and the back. 

He didn’t have the energy to lift his arm. Perhaps Phoinix would rather see him dead than breaking the sacred rules of the city. 

Better dead than living a lie, he thought. Those short hours with Achilles, in a chill room on the top floor. That warm mouth on his, and promises, sweet nothings he had so desperately wished to say - 

He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. 

Better dead than a life never having known all of that.   
\---

There was a faint thudding sound that kept him up. He’d tried to salvage whatever energy he had left, to think of a bargain, anything he could find that would convince Phoinix to listen to him. 

Instead he found his mind blank, that noise driving him wild, his thoughts scattered across open space. 

_Thud_. 

He covered his ears. 

_Thud_. 

He buried his head in his lap. 

_Thud_. 

He wished it would stop. He couldn’t _think_. 

He wished he could drown it out, the pain in his head multiplying.   
\---

The hunger must have made him black out at some point. There was warm wetness against his face, a roughness that made him wince. 

Someone was shaking him. A hand on his shoulder, urgent. 

“ _Patroclus_.” 

He started awake, struggling to open his eyes. 

“Get up, _please_. We don’t have much time.” 

He blinked, the lines in his vision straightening just so until he could make out Teucer’s worried face above him. 

“I’m so sorry,” the other man apologized. “I tried to get to you sooner. But I couldn’t get the key.” He propped Patroclus up, cringing when he saw the mess of his hands.   
“You have to get up. I managed to get a carriage back to the city. If you leave now, Phoinix won’t be able to do anything about it.” 

_Antilochus_. He grabbed Teucer’s arm, the question arising. 

Teucer shook his head. “He left this morning.” 

Well, fuck. That explained why he hadn’t heard anything from the Sparrow.   
\---

He struggled to keep himself upright on the ride back to the city, the carriage swaying around him and making him dizzy. Teucer had all but shoved him in, and he’d barely had time to thank the man he’d known since childhood, whose friendship had turned out to remain a constant. 

All the while, the fear in him brewed, unable to stay silent no matter how much he tried to quiet his thoughts. What would Phoinix do when he realized he was gone? To what extent was the old caretaker willing to go, to teach him a lesson? 

_Achilles, Achilles_ , his mind wept, and he covered his mouth, holding back the sob. 

There was an answer. They were so close to it. 

If he could only make it back to him, then the path would be clearer when they could brave it together.   
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thunder clapped outside as the carriage drew up in the lodge’s driveway. It was the only one there, and he couldn’t help but pause at how deserted the building looked. 

_How determined he is to be heard_ , his mother’s voice echoed, hearing the wind howl ever louder, the mighty sounds in the distance reaching his ears. 

And how determined he was, indeed. 

He stumbled out of the carriage, leaning on his knees for a second to catch his breath. He thought the bile would rise up and spatter against the stones, but the cool air on his face felt good, the condensation turning into little beads on his forehead. 

His whole body started to shake as he made his way through the kitchen entrance, up the servants’ steps where he had ascended time and time again. The determined fury in Phoinix’s eyes, the words. 

_Never see him again_. 

It was surreal, thinking his old caretaker knew. And that look in Phoinix’s eyes - there had been fear, too. He’d left without saying anything. There was some small part of him that couldn’t help wondering - if only he had taken the time to find Phoinix and make him listen - instead, he’d run off into the wind. 

_No_ , he shook his head. There was no use thinking of it now. He was here, and Achilles waited for him. The thump in his chest grew ever more urgent as he reached the performer’s wing.   
\---

The lamp was burning when he got there, and it somehow made him breathe out a huge sigh of relief. He slid Achilles’ door open, gripping the frame, thinking there was an ocean within him waiting to be let out. 

Achilles was sitting at his bed, poring over some papers. Seeing him like this, engaged in a task so menial without a care in the world, soothed him to no end. 

The other man looked up, a surprised smile lighting his features. 

“How was it?” he asked. The smile faded into seriousness immediately, as though he’d reminded himself that Patroclus had been to visit the ill. 

He stumbled over to him, the sweat cooling on his forehead, limbs lax like one of the toy horses laid by his bed. 

“You don’t look so well.” 

Achilles’ arms came around him, and at once he was falling, falling.

He fell against the other’s chest and buried his face there. He inhaled the scent of fragrant wood, felt the silk of Achilles’ robes and the sliver of skin where they parted. 

“What’s the matter? Was it hard to see him?” 

He looked up, biting his lip. He’d been so sure there was an answer. He’d been so sure as soon as he saw Achilles, he would know what to do. But he found himself just as lost as he’d ever been. Except for one thing. 

He placed his hands on Achilles’ face. He needed him to know, even if he couldn’t say it. He struggled, wishing he had pen and paper. 

Achilles waited for him patiently, still holding him close. 

“I missed you,” he whispered, after a moment, and kissed Patroclus’ ear. 

Fresh tears sprang to his eyes. 

_Staying_ , he said, his fingers making a groove in the other man’s face. 

_Staying, staying, staying_. 

He didn’t care what anyone said. There was a surer path to the world beyond, but he would not step foot on it without Achilles. Menelaus could go on without him. Even if the lodge threatened to claim him, he would be no one else’s but Achilles. And they could survive. Even if Achilles believed there was no way out. 

They would survive, because he had lived out his entire life not knowing how close he had been to the other, and now he had him, he was not letting go. 

Achilles seemed to sense what it was he said, and gave a small indignant huff, but tightened his hold around him nonetheless. 

“How much have we given to this troupe, hmm?” he sighed, but there was no bite in his voice this time. 

_You and me_. 

If they had to give everything they had, he would, if it meant they could be together.

He was rocking on his heels, his eyes falling closed, the exhaustion finally getting to him, when he felt Achilles tense. 

He turned his head and gave a start. 

Antilochus stood frozen in the doorway, face pale as paper. 

“Patroclus,” he breathed out. His voice cracked at the last syllable.

He frowned, going over to the Sparrow. 

“Patroclus, there’s -” Antilochus paused, looking between them both. His panicked look faded into a kind of resolution. 

“You have to come with me,” he managed, grabbing Patroclus’ hand. 

_What_? He shook his head, taking Antilochus by the shoulders. 

He wasn’t going. He had made his decision. 

“Menelaus has decided to tell Odysseus about the new troupe. And Patroclus -” 

No, no, he wasn’t going, he wasn’t. 

“Listen to me!” Antilochus snapped, the fear in his eyes becoming apparent. 

“The master _knows_ about you and Achilles! You have to come with me now, if you have any hope of escaping punishment!” 

The words had knocked the breath out of his lungs. 

He stood, staring at his friend, the weight in his gut growing larger and larger until he was sure it would drop out of him. 

He hadn’t made it back in time. Teucer had been _wrong_. In the hours he had been trapped in the silk room struggling for a way out, Phoinix had reported them to the master after all. 

And he had believed the old caretaker meant to _protect_ him. 

_Consequences_. He had believed however misguided Phoinix was, he had kept him there out of fear, out of a real instinct to keep him from suffering worse. Despite their differences, they’d always … there had always been a part of him that looked past the old man’s harshness, that saw something else within.

It stung. 

He steadied his breaths, trying to collect himself. Then he looked hard at Antilochus, mouthing their old caretaker’s name like a curse. 

Antilochus had to know. They had grown up under the same roof, and his friend would know what the man they had relied on for care and guidance was capable of doing. 

Antilochus’ eyebrows drew together, realizing what it was Patroclus mouthed at him. 

“What? No, Patroclus. You’ve got it all wrong. Fuck, we don’t have _time_.” He reached over again to grab Patroclus’ hand. 

He knew it was the stupidest thing he had ever done. The rush of adrenaline was in him, moving to his fingertips. He knew it would be a mistake. 

But he pushed his friend away, slid the door shut and locked it in Antilochus’ face. 

“Patroclus!” Banging, urgent and loud. “Listen to me, _please_!” 

He stood and stared at the floor. He needed a second to think. It was falling apart around them, and he needed a second to _think_. 

He didn’t dare look at Achilles.

A second passed. And two.

“Patroclus,” Achilles said, voice tired and resigned. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Do you think to shut the world out for us?” 

He wasn’t hiding from the truth. He wasn’t. They just needed time. 

“It’s over,” Achilles said, gently. 

He shook his head. 

“You need to go with Antilochus. Go, before he gets into trouble too.” 

_No_. 

He grabbed Achilles' hand, eyes flying open to meet the other’s. 

There was a small smile gracing Achilles’ face, watching him as he did. 

“What should we do, then?” Achilles asked. His eyes glimmered sadly as he waited for a response. 

“Climb out the window?” 

He glanced at the window, closed against the chill, mind leaping into action. 

But he could hear the irony in Achilles’ voice, and the gravity of it all finally sank in. 

They couldn’t give up. They just couldn’t. 

“Perhaps if we make ourselves small enough, they won’t notice us when they come looking.” 

A tear slid down, hearing those absurd suggestions, sounding too much like hope it could be mistaken for the real thing. 

He couldn’t hear Antilochus anymore. 

“You have one last chance to go with him,” Achilles observed, head cocked to one side as though catching at retreating footsteps. 

He shook his head. _Staying_. 

Achilles slumped, and he could see how much the other man had been holding out for him to save himself. He went over to Achilles, wrapped his arms around him and laid his head on his chest. 

“You’re breaking your promise to me,” Achilles accused, one hand sliding through Patroclus’ hair. 

He didn’t have the heart to look up at the other man’s face.

“That at least one of us is going to make it out to the mountain again.” 

He nodded, burying his face further in the other’s skin. 

He knew. Mercy, he knew. 

“It’s alright,” Achilles said, after a moment. 

“You’ll stay here with me, hmm?”

He would stay there as long as he could.   
\-----------------------------------

The knocking began not an hour later. 

A gentle _thud, thud, thud_ , as though it were any other day, a messenger at the door. 

He stood still, feeling he had turned to ice, his body so close to Achilles’ he didn’t think a knife would pry them apart. 

“It’s alright,” Achilles whispered in his ear, making him close his eyes as the knocking only grew louder. 

He thought he could have been lost in a dream. He barely felt the exhaustion anymore, or the hunger. The air was thick around them, the lamp flickering in the corner bathing the room in soft warmth. 

It was beginning to drizzle outside. 

_Thud_ grew to sharp _thump_. 

Knuckles, rapping against the wood, ringing loud in his ears and making his blood race. All the while he held Achilles fast, trying to keep his breathing in control. 

The door flew open in a few minutes, a crashing sound, the hinge having been broken. 

“There you are,” Odysseus announced, almost nonchalantly. He smiled at them both. And in his eyes, a glint across the surface of a far more dangerous emotion. 

Patroclus couldn’t help it. He started to tremble. 

Achilles’ hand was on the small of his back, and he tried to stop, to no avail. 

“Looking for us?” Achilles inquired, stance already straightened, shoulders back and chin parallel to the ground. He eyed Odysseus with his usual relaxed demeanor. 

Odysseus’ smile only widened, making no move to approach them. 

“It seems I’m scaring poor Patroclus over there,” he remarked. He gave a jerk of his chin, his men emerging from either side of him quicker than a shade. 

“No need to be afraid, Patroclus. These are just some friends of mine.” 

“By all means, join the party,” Achilles replied, an arrogant flair already present in his tone. 

It made Odysseus’ gaze darken. No matter what went on between them, the master had never been able to make his prize dancer break. It was something Achilles had never given him, and never would. 

“Yes. It is a party! Why not celebrate the success of our troupe,” the master sneered. The men approached them quietly. 

“You can call your fucking dogs to heel, Odysseus,” Achilles replied smoothly. His hand was still on Patroclus’ back, guiding him along. 

“We will go, but they will not touch us.” 

“Fine.” Odysseus shrugged.  
\---

The previously quiet lodge was in a ruckus when they went down the stairs, Odysseus and his men around them like a wall. He remembered a distant day, how excited the other servants had sounded calling his name to join them as they watched the hammer fall. It made him feel sick. 

He had known nothing, then. Now he knew too much. 

He found Antilochus’ anxious face in the crowd, and held his gaze. Continuing to mouth the name, so that it would embed itself in his friend’s memory. 

He saw Antilochus’ face screw up, his head shaking, and he couldn’t look anymore.   
\---

Punishments were carried out in the courtyard, in full view of the entire lodge and its inhabitants. One of the men yanked Achilles’ hand away from him, and the loss of the touch left him cold. 

Achilles didn’t look at him, but he could feel how much the other man was trying to stay calm for his sake. 

It made him quell his own fears, made him straighten and hold his head high under the scrutinizing stares of everyone around him. 

Whispers. There had never been a scandal like this, not since - 

The thought made his stomach tighten. He had spent nights shielding his thoughts from it. 

“It seems everyone is present,” Odysseus started, looking around him with a pleased expression. “Good. We can begin.” 

“What is the meaning of this?” Menelaus, pushing past the crowd, eyes immediately finding Patroclus’. 

Odysseus steadily ignored him, turning to address the onlookers instead. 

“It is easy to forget, isn’t it?” he questioned, as though making a speech.   
“When we have enjoyed the height of our fortune, far greater than it has ever been. It’s easy to forget where it all came from.” 

“Odysseus -” Menelaus protested. 

“Quiet!” Odysseus barked, his calm demeanor falling away. 

“You,” he seethed, pointing at Menelaus. 

Patroclus noticed Agamemnon waiting in the corner, arms crossed and watching them both. 

“You think you can steal from me, that I wouldn’t notice because you have called it friendship?”   
He spat on the ground, making Menelaus draw back.   
“ _This_ is what I think of your friendship.” 

“I only want what you have shown me. What you have taught me,” Menelaus replied, unable to mask his growing agitation. 

“And you forget whose name carries this fucking troupe!” Odysseus pointed at the lodge, at the household staff who had fallen silent around them.   
“You forget who it is who has taken the ones who are nothing, and given them life!” 

He grabbed Patroclus then, and flung him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him. 

“Scum shines on the surface, does it not? And it’s scum you want!” Odysseus pulled Patroclus’ hair back, raising his head so Menelaus could see his face.   
“Perhaps it doesn’t matter to you that everything in this lodge belongs to me, whether it is the dirt beneath your shoes or a chest of gold.” 

“Let him go, Odysseus,” Menelaus pleaded. “It is the reasonable thing to do. You have no act without Achilles, and Patroclus will wither away in this troupe by himself. He could become something with me. We would not forget what you have done for us.” 

Behind him, Agamemnon tutted, seemingly amused at Menelaus’ attempt. 

“I could,” Odysseus replied, after a moment. The way his eyes swam - those creatures lurking below the surface - Patroclus had a sense of what was coming next. 

“I can do anything I want, you see.” 

He released Patroclus’ hair, stepped back from him. Menelaus started to look relieved. 

“If I want to build a lodge, I can. If I want to break it -” Odysseus stalked over to the center of the courtyard, where bottles of fermenting tea had been left out in the sun. He grabbed one and smashed it, the liquid washing over the cobblestones like a wave.   
“I can.” 

“What are you -” 

The question fell on deaf ears, each bottle removed one by one and smashed against the ground, until the courtyard was covered in pieces of smooth glass. The crowd stepped further away, unwilling to be cut by the glass. 

“There.” Odysseus beamed at the results. He turned to Achilles.

“I don’t blame you for thinking you can do whatever you want with your body.” His eyes landed on Patroclus, who had gotten up to his knees.   
“ _Fuck_ whoever you want.”

Patroclus shuddered. 

“Because it’s just as simple for me to remind you.” 

Achilles stared back at Odysseus, shoulders growing more tense than Patroclus had seen. 

“What should I remind you of first, hmm?” Odysseus reached over and tugged at Achilles’ robe, nearly tearing the priceless fabric.   
“Who does this belong to?”   
He grabbed Achilles’ face.   
“And this? Which part of you isn’t mine? If there is one, now is the time for you to show me!” 

“None of it,” Achilles seethed, so angry his eyes had dilated to black.   
“I am a human being. You _can’t_ own me.” 

It shocked Patroclus to the very core, hearing that. 

“That’s where you’re wrong. Because you see, my dancer -” Odysseus replied.   
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to do this.” 

He took a shard of glass and slashed it across Achilles’ face, causing a collective gasp to rise from the crowd. 

“What I own, I can take away.” He was speaking so low now, yet his voice seemed to ring out across the courtyard. 

“I can take away your beauty. I can take away the very heartbeat of your art.” 

Achilles stood still with one hand halfway up to his face, as though barely able to comprehend the blood running down. There was a deep laceration going all the way from his forehead, down his nose, and over his lips. Whatever scar it left behind would be far more conspicuous than his good looks. 

“Take, then,” Achilles said. “It doesn’t change a thing.” 

Odysseus nodded. “Perhaps you think it is love that keeps me away. Your beloved dance. Well, Achilles.” 

And he dragged him over to the broken glass littered all over the courtyard. 

Achilles’ eyes started to widen when he saw what Odysseus was about to ask him to do. 

“This is unnecessary,” Menelaus commented. 

“Oh?” That unbridled rage was back. “I am not done showing you until you see!”   
This time, it was everyone in the lodge Odysseus addressed.   
“If I want to make him dance, I will make him _dance_!” He pushed Achilles onto the glass, ignoring his yelp and the way Achilles clung to him. 

“Go on! Show us what you love best!” Odysseus crowed. He caught Agamemnon’s eye. “You have some objection?” 

Agamemnon shook his head, still watching. 

“Don’t,” Achilles pleaded, the hardened exterior crumbling immediately. He shuffled his feet so as not to step directly on the glass, the bare skin there already being cut by so many tiny shards, invisible against the stone. 

“What are you waiting for? _Dance_!” 

Patroclus had been as taken aback as the rest, unmoving from his spot on the ground. He thought his insides had turned to dust, the blood rising within him until it was all he could see. 

It was the way Achilles stood, curling in on himself, the fear apparent on his face, that made him stand up. 

Before he knew it, he was running up to him, ready to pull him away, to remind him that they would _not_ bend their heads no matter what Odysseus did to them. 

He could hear a distant scream, Antilochus calling his name. 

And strong arms like iron rods were around him, wrestling him to the ground again before he could reach Achilles. 

“You don’t want to?” Odysseus asked, sounding disappointed. He snapped his fingers, not even a glance at Patroclus. 

“I suppose we are forced to go about this the traditional way,” he sighed. 

He stopped struggling when he saw what it was Odysseus’ men had retrieved. 

A night in his bed, when he had truly felt as though there was nowhere he belonged. Curling his hands around his neck to ask Antilochus a question. 

It had always been a possibility, for ones who disobeyed the rules of the city. 

He had been running, and running, thinking he could escape it in dreams. 

The iron shackle of the Collar was held open to contain him, one of the men holding his neck up to fasten it in place. 

Achilles raised his head, going several shades whiter.   
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked, glaring daggers at Odysseus. 

Patroclus realized it then; Achilles hadn’t truly believed Odysseus would harm him. It had been a gamble - anger the master enough, and the blame would fall on him instead of the both of them. 

“Why _wouldn’t_ you sell him to Menelaus?” Achilles seethed. “You know what he is worth.” 

Odysseus didn’t reply, making a motion for the Collar to be placed around Patroclus’ neck. 

“I’ll do it,” Achilles tried again, begging this time. 

“I’ll dance for you.”

_No_ , Patroclus breathed, even as the iron shackle met his skin, the Collar clamped shut with a small click. 

“Master Odysseus,” one of the men asked, tightening the shackle around Patroclus’ neck. “Shouldn’t we sedate him first?” 

Odysseus’ lip twitched in response. 

“It’s too bad it’s come to this, Patroclus,” he said, reaching down to smooth back his hair. “But did you ever think it was going to end well?” 

“No, no, no,” he could hear Achilles in the background. “Don’t do this, Odysseus, _please_.”

It made him curl up on the ground, hearing the other one break like this. All of Achilles’ strength, his resilience over the years. Gone. 

He searched the crowd, half-lidded, wondering if the Collar was already doing its job. He felt nothing. 

He found Antilochus, pushing past the others, struggling to get to him. Ajax, holding the Sparrow back. 

“Let me go!” Antilochus tore past Ajax’s grasp, running up to Patroclus. The men intercepted him, but the master waved them away, not bothered enough to stop one stray performer. 

“Oh, Patroclus,” Antilochus sobbed, one hand grabbing the Collar. It did not budge. The men eyed him but made no movement.   
“Why is this happening?” Antilochus continued, the distress plain on his face. 

He could feel the tingling beginning at his neck, crawling down his throat. He remembered the figure from long ago, Little Ajax curled up on the ground just as he was. His eyes found Ajax’s in the crowd, seeing the older man recoil at watching the darkest time of his life repeat itself. 

He grabbed Antilochus’ hand. 

“Shh,” Antilochus said, as if to soothe him. 

“I’m never leaving you.”

He wasn’t done trying to get through to his friend.   
_Phoinix_ , he mouthed the name again, seeing Antilochus frown. 

His friend at least deserved to know who had betrayed them. 

“What?” 

He tightened his grip on Antilochus, even as the tingling went all the way up to his face, his head. 

“Patroclus,” Antilochus said, sounding confused. “It wasn’t Phoinix who told Odysseus. He wouldn’t have.” 

He would, and he did. 

“No,” Antilochus objected. “ _Listen to me_. Phoinix was going to leave the house to you. It would have taken the master’s attention off you, if you succeeded him as caretaker. He was trying to protect you. He sent me away first to let Odysseus know his decision.” 

He frowned. Then …

“Menelaus asked Odysseus to sell you to him. He told him all about you and Achilles, thinking it would convince the master that you aren’t a good fit for this troupe anymore. I don’t think he anticipated how Odysseus would react.” 

He closed his eyes, the last of his strength leaving him. 

The arena. A playing ground for powerful men. He should have known. Oh, he should have known. 

“I asked you to be careful,” Antilochus whispered. He paused. 

“It didn’t work, did it?” 

And he burst into tears. 

Patroclus opened his mouth to console his friend, tried to lift a hand. 

But when the Collar awakened - it hit him hard and fast, snapping his mouth shut, a hold on his body so powerful he could not have moved. 

He felt his eyes blinking rapidly, could barely hear Antilochus’ alarmed cries, blending in with the noise in his eardrums. 

He could feel the water within him, lying in the depths, the part that made up his blood - that had never been controlled. 

The Collar could turn his own art against him. 

And he could do nothing to stop it, hearing the rush of the wave answering its call, struggling, struggling as he sunk deeper -

_It hurt. Everything hurt. His throat, most of all._

_He was lying on the floor, in a musty room, and the air was so heavy he could feel it in his nostrils._

_“He’s dead.”_

_A man’s voice, and he recoiled at once, nose wrinkling at the familiar scent._

_Burnt tobacco leaves, much like the ones he had smelled every time he went into Odysseus’ office._

_Someone was screaming. His heart leapt; he knew that voice. His mother. Out of half-lidded eyes, he could see her flying at the man, trying to scratch his eyes out._

_“You killed him!” She threw herself at the man again and again, but he held her back with his hands._

_“How could you? He’s our child!”_

_“He does not belong here. I am showing him a mercy no one else would give him.”_

_“He’s ours!” She screamed, and wailed, growing hysterical._

_It made the man - his father - twitch in irritation. He raised a hand and struck her hard, making her head snap back._

_“N-” he tried to say, but there was a bone broken there, and it hurt too much._

_Don’t hurt her, he wanted to plead._

_His mother stood up, stumbling over to his father. He struck her again. This time she hit the floor, and he did not stop._

_He began to kick her, breaking her ribs and making her suck in a breath. He lifted his foot again, one final kick to shut her up, when -_

_“What -”_

_Droplets of water, creeping through the floorboards. Droplets, rushing down the ceiling, through the pipes, everywhere in the house. They crawled up his father’s boots, up his legs. They crawled into his ears, his nose, his mouth._

_“Mmph!”_

_He didn’t know what was happening. One arm was outstretched, and his mouth opened and closed. All he knew was the sharp pain in his neck, where his father had strangled him to the brink of death. Multiplying, the urge to protect his mother growing with it._

_And the droplets turned into streams, covering his father’s face, even as the man clawed at himself._

_He realized what was happening. His father was suffocating, and somehow it was his doing._

_But he could not stop._

_He could not stop himself, even when his father was dead._

_He sat up, rubbing his head. It hurt so much, where his father had slammed it against the floor. There was blood matted in the hair, and the smell of it made him want to throw up._

_“Mercy …”_

_His mother was staring at him hard._

_He was sorry. He really was._

_She stared harder at him, and he started to cry._

_“Oh, my child,” his mother said, and pulled him into her arms. She winced from her broken ribs, but still held him against her._

_“It is alright. He will never hurt us again.”_

_When the hour passed, they were out of that house. Two figures running off into the night._

_It was how their life would look like, year after year. Village after village. Outrunning a crime that had revealed what he was._

_It was that day at the river, when they reached their limits on how far they could run._

He startled awake, the water in him running through his veins like a shock of ice. He could see his father’s eyes, wide as saucers, clawing at the streams of water as they entered his airway. 

He could feel it now, the man’s fear and outrage, feel the breath leaving him, the art awakened and vengeful. 

Not art. A weapon. 

He had once used it as a weapon, and cast it out of his memory. His father had tried to kill him for what he was. And the water had taken its revenge, even from the mind of a small child. 

He and his mother had been runaways, living their lives on the run. They’d never had a chance. 

The art was not just a thing of beauty. There was a reason why it was feared, outside the walls of Polis Thugater where it could be tamed. He had never belonged in the outside world, where he would be hunted down and reviled. He had never belonged in the city either, where his soul was crushed until it could only bow down to the whims of others. 

The art, in many ways, had given him freedom. It gave him the chance to tell his stories to the world. It gave him power over himself, and a way to communicate the images in his mind. But he had never controlled it. It had always controlled him. 

And that was something the Collar took advantage of, turning partners against each other so that one held the reins. 

He would not win against his own art. It was a force of nature, and it would claim his life the way it had the day he had been born. 

“I’m losing him,” he heard a voice. Antilochus’, he thought. 

“Let him be.”

There was a sound of protest as Antilochus was dragged away. He opened his eyes just enough, the pressure in him growing and growing until he was sure he would explode from the inside out, blood and bones and water. It hummed and buzzed under his skin, crawling into his organs, paralyzing his limbs. 

He didn’t realize that he was seizing up on the ground, until the men held him steady. 

“I will take it off, Achilles,” he heard Odysseus then. 

“If you will do something for me.” 

“ _Anything_.” 

He cracked open his eyes, trying to find the other in the distance, to let his voice guide him. He was losing his fight against the Collar. The water would overpower him. If he could find his strength somewhere else -

“I will take the Collar off, in exchange for a lesser punishment.” 

“Take it off. Take it off him now.” 

He was losing air. It was being cut off in his lungs, and -

A snap of the fingers, and the iron shackle was falling away from him. He barely registered it. His limbs were still weighted down, and try as he might, he could not move them. He tried to lift his head, but his body would not do as it was told. 

He needed to tell Achilles that it hadn’t worked. The Collar had done its damage. There were a few seconds where his mind slipped, consciousness fading away.

“Burn him.”

His eyes flew open again. 

There was an ugly pause, and he could actually make out Achilles’ horrified face. 

“ _What_?”

“I have taken the Collar off. And now you will punish him, as agreed.” 

The murmurs from the crowd multiplied in volume. No one made a move otherwise. 

“I will never do that.” 

“Then I will put the Collar on again. A slow death, if you think that’s a fair trade.” 

“You will not touch him again.” Achilles was breathing hard, his face white as a sheet. His eyes held a darkness Patroclus had only seen in the making, never revealed in such completion. 

Odysseus smiled. “You don’t think so?” 

He grabbed the Collar from the men, yanked Patroclus’ head back and moved to snap it in place. 

His hand had barely touched the fastening when Achilles leaped forward, the flames igniting at his fingertips. 

The world seemed to stop on its axis, just then. 

Patroclus could make out Odysseus’ eyes, widening in surprise. 

And then the first streak of fire was up his leg, catching on to his clothes. 

“What the -” his mouth clamped in rage. “ _Put it out_. Put it out _now_.” 

The flame only grew, clinging to the rest of his clothes, smoke wisping and curling. 

Odysseus’ eyes swivelled in panic, seeking his men, but they were all stepping away from Achilles, who attacked with a fury so full in its rawness. 

_No_ , he thought, seeing some of the men start to run in the direction of the gates. 

“Stop! Stop!” Odysseus’ cries turned into full-on screams, and there was no blocking it out. 

He flailed across the courtyard, the flames engulfing him, hands grabbing at anyone who could help him. 

The onlookers backed away from him. 

It was an ugly sight to see. They left him there to die, not a single one rushing to help the master they served. 

For all the world, he wished he could unhear those strangled cries, those screams, seeming to last forever until it was over.   
\---

Consciousness must have slipped away, because the next thing he knew, the lodge had broken out into chaos all around them, and he was in Achilles’ arms. 

“I’m sorry,” Achilles said. “There is no undoing what I did.” His voice was sad, but there was a determination in there that was hard to miss. 

“I’m too late, aren’t I?” 

He tried to shake his head, but it would not obey. He tried to put his arms around Achilles. He was caught up in fear, thinking the Collar had done far more damage than could be fixed. 

“What are you doing?” Antilochus snapped, running up to them. “You can’t be here anymore!” 

He hoisted Patroclus up, helping Achilles get a secure hold on him. 

“How far can you run?” Antilochus asked, staring hard at Achilles. 

They looked down at the cuts Achilles had gotten from the broken glass. 

“I don’t know,” Achilles replied. His face was blank. 

“You have one chance to get out.” Antilochus looked around, the wheels in his head turning. 

“What’s the point?” Achilles asked. “They’ll be sure to alert the authorities. We have nowhere to go.”

“The alarms haven’t sounded yet,” Antilochus pointed out. 

“That doesn’t mean -” 

Heedless of Achilles’ words, Antilochus hauled the gate open. 

“Sparrow,” Achilles protested, sounding defeated.   
“They will catch us.” 

Antilochus looked at Achilles, then. “I don’t care,” he said. “You’re going to try.”

He looked back and forth at them both. 

“You have to.”

They stared at each other for a moment. And then Achilles tightened his grip around Patroclus and nodded. “Alright.”

“Ajax!” Antilochus called, waving the man over. 

“We need to keep the gate closed and make sure no one else gets out.”

He frowned when the other man did not respond, running in the opposite direction instead. 

“Ajax!” 

Antilochus wound his hands in his hair, starting to panic. 

“Fuck, what are we going to do? Ajax!” 

His face screwed up in stone-cold rage. 

“Fine! Turn your back on us, you fucker!” 

It made Ajax stop and turn around. 

“Shut up, Sparrow,” he yelled. He grabbed Antilochus by the arms. “Menelaus and Agamemnon are running to contact the authorities _as we speak_. I am going to make sure they don’t get the chance. You keep the gate closed. No one in, no one out. Understood?”

“But I -” Antilochus wavered. “What if I can’t -” 

Ajax shook Antilochus hard. “You _can_.”

It made Antilochus’ expression turn into firm resolution. “Alright. It’s a plan.”   
\---

It was time for them to go. 

He could feel Achilles’ weight shifting, struggling to hold him for so long. He managed to turn his head just so, catching Antilochus’ gaze in a final goodbye.

“Off you go,” Antilochus said, and tried to smile, though his eyes were watering. He wiped them away. He leaned over and kissed Patroclus’ forehead. 

“We’ll see each other again, okay?” 

It was an impossible reality, and they both knew it. 

_Goodbye_ , he tried to mouth, but his lips would not move. 

“Off you go,” Antilochus said again, voice breaking, and he turned his face away and hauled the gate shut before there could be anything further passed between them. 

Now he was in Achilles’ hands. 

The empty street before them. 

“Ready?” Achilles breathed. 

And he ran.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Drizzle had turned into downpour. His eyes were on the heavens, the swirl of grey clouds looming overhead like a forbidding omen. 

Achilles’ footsteps pattered against the wet streets, colliding with puddles, slipping and sliding over slippery pavement. They had to stop eventually, Achilles carefully placing him on the side of the road, bending over and gulping in great volumes of air. 

He had just about regained feeling in his fingers, in his palm, and he brushed his hand against Achilles’ side. 

“I just need a minute,” Achilles gasped, wiping the condensation from his forehead, a mixture of sweat and rain. 

He shook his head sadly. They could run until Achilles collapsed. They would never make it out of the city. 

Achilles winced, seeing that look in his eyes. But his face was set in stony determination, and when the minute passed, he picked Patroclus up again and held him close. 

“I’ll get us there,” he said. 

Patroclus could only nod, managing to move the upper part of his arm enough so it was hanging on to Achilles’ neck. 

They ran. 

As the evening wore on, they took the back alleys, relying on the cover of darkness. His heart was sinking, sinking, too deep to be retrieved again. He concentrated on the rain pouring into Achilles’ eyes, trying to summon enough energy to keep the drops away - in the hope that clear vision would make all the difference. Try as he might, it did not work. Whatever the Collar had done to him had destroyed his call on the water, for how long, he didn’t know. 

The rain had just about stopped. Achilles had slowed, chest heaving as he trudged through the streets, keeping well out of sight. His arms were shaking where he held Patroclus, but he did not let go. 

At last, he slumped against a dirty wall outside an abandoned tavern, unheedful of the stench or the grime rubbing up on his clothes. It hurt, seeing the hope slowly draining out of his eyes. 

“Just a minute,” Achilles murmured, too low to be intelligible, and closed his eyes. As exhausted as he was, his arms remained tight around Patroclus still. 

The silence stretched out between them and he thought they had a moment of peace. He closed his eyes as well, nudging his nose into the crook of Achilles’ neck. 

And that was when the alarms began to sound, a great tolling of bells in the distance. In his entire life, he had never heard anything like it. 

Achilles’ eyes flew open. 

“ _Fuck_.” He looked down at Patroclus, tightened his grip on him again. 

And they ran. 

He was sure Achilles was going to pass out at any second. Even with the burst of adrenaline the alarms were giving him, it had been too long. They had passed street after street until he could no longer recognize where they were. But he knew they were nowhere near the red gates that would lead them out of Polis Thugater. 

Behind them, the sound of sirens grew closer, a deep wailing that made his insides rush. They were being hunted down. 

Achilles kept cursing, but quieted down when the first flash of light was sighted a few streets over. A few streets over, and they would be caught. 

They made a turn, into the outskirts of the city, where some of the poorer lodges had once stood. All the while he curled into himself more and more, as though if he could make himself small enough, no one would hurt him. 

Lights flashed from either side of them. The nearest one was barely a block away. 

Achilles’ face paled when he saw it, and made another turn. He ran a few steps. 

And then he fell onto his knees, the expression on his face more surprised than anything. 

“Get the _fuck_ up,” he hissed at himself, but there was no moving those legs. He set Patroclus down again and tried to get out of his kneeling position. His calves trembled all the way. 

“Mercy.” He needed rest. Badly. But there was none to be had, not when they were so close to being captured. 

It was over, Patroclus thought, and found he had started weeping, no matter that he could not make the sounds for it. He didn’t know what the penalty was for the murder of a troupe master. It had never happened before. What was worse than death? 

The sirens blared louder, the lights neared … and he wished he could cover his ears against the sound. 

Achilles wound two arms around him and dragged them into an empty corner, where they could stay out of sight for just a few moments more. 

They huddled together in the shadows. He didn’t even know if he was afraid anymore - it felt like he had gone past fear, into whatever realm lay beyond. He heard Achilles breathing behind him, turned his head and saw the exhaustion in the other man’s eyes. 

“We were close, weren’t we?” Achilles asked, mustering up a small smile. He closed his eyes again. 

“Listen.” 

Patroclus listened, feeling the hole in his chest widen further. 

Hollow, he was. 

“When they arrive, you are going to crawl into that drain over there.” Achilles jerked his chin to a sewage gutter by the pavement. 

He shook his head. He couldn’t move. 

“I need you to. Find the strength, Patroclus. Because you are going to survive this.” 

He couldn’t _move_. He looked hard at Achilles, willing him to understand this. 

“You’ll hide in there, while they take me away. Maybe my fire will work again. I can burn them. I _will_ burn them. It will prove enough distraction that they won’t even think to look for you.” 

Brave Achilles, he thought. The strength of mind to defeat a whole army. They could dream. They could dream while the guards took Achilles’ life. They could dream while he died in the gutter, if he even made it there to hide. 

If Achilles had only left him behind, there would have been a chance. But he knew he could never bring it up. 

Achilles had taken hold of his feet, was rubbing warmth into his legs. As if that would help them move. 

“I think I can walk again,” Achilles said. He struggled, wincing hard as he hoisted himself up. 

“Alright, I can push you over there. But I need your help.”

He nodded, taking Achilles’ hand. 

“On the count of three.”

One, two, three. 

Achilles pushed. Patroclus tried to support his own weight, but his legs would not budge. 

“Try, Patroclus. _I need you to try_.” 

He was trying. He let out a helpless noise. They tried again and again. There was no moving him into the drain, and Achilles had lost strength in his arms. 

“Okay, fuck that. We’ll find a different plan.” 

There was no other plan. Achilles’ legs could still carry him, if he paced himself well enough. He had to flee by himself. 

“Don’t you even think about it!” Achilles snapped, seeing the look cross Patroclus’ face. 

He was about to beg, to find some way to tell Achilles it was alright, when the sound of hooves came clopping against the stone. They stilled, Achilles wrapping one arm protectively around him. 

This one didn’t even have a light. It had crept up on them unawares. 

He thought they might have turned to stone, the way the air thickened around them, the way the carriage drew up and stayed still and silent. 

It really was over, he thought. He wondered why his heart wasn’t beating faster, but realized he was too exhausted to care. 

“I’m sorry, Patroclus,” he caught Achilles’ whisper, just as the carriage door opened. 

A figure stepped out into the gloom, and he felt his stomach clench. 

There was the fear. It had always been lingering, waiting to flare up again. 

_Agamemnon_ , his mind told him. That hulking silhouette, the glaring shadow against the wall. 

_Agamemnon, Agamemnon, Agamemnon_. 

He could feel Achilles’ fingers squeezing his shoulder hard. 

It wasn’t Agamemnon. 

“Well,” said Lord Hector, staring down at them, seemingly calm but unable to conceal the shock in his eyes. 

“This is a surprise.” 

He didn’t know whether to be alarmed or relieved. Achilles had stiffened beside him. Overhead, the sirens edged closer. 

It was dark inside the carriage, but he craned his neck. Lord Hector wasn’t alone. Inside the vehicle, there was a slight movement. And he saw the shape of another figure, leaning over to get a look. 

“Don’t come any closer,” Achilles warned, eyes never leaving Hector like a hunted animal. 

“This is going to be hard to explain,” Hector sighed. His gaze found Patroclus, and his expression dimmed.   
“Very hard to explain indeed.” 

Achilles said nothing, glaring daggers at the man. 

All the while, Patroclus stared. He stared at the figure inside the carriage. He willed her to hear him. 

_I won’t tell_. The lightness of her voice, and the secret she had kept between them since. How he had searched for her in the crowd, season after season. He could already smell the plum blossoms, drifting through his window at night. 

Hector was biting his lip, looking back and forth between Achilles and Patroclus. He was clearly not the authorities. But he was also a man with power who had invested largely in the city, and it would have been a mistake on his part not to turn them in. 

_Please_ , Patroclus begged, not for a second averting his eyes from the carriage. 

There was a moment of silence. 

And then the carriage moved, swaying as the second figure stepped out. 

Lord Hector glanced at his wife but didn’t protest. He could only frown when she stepped closer to the two on the ground. 

“Andromache -”

She had a hand on Patroclus now, and he remembered her touch. Where his career on the stage had begun. 

“Don’t touch him!” Achilles hissed, but Lady Andromache only looked at him. His rage died down with her glance. 

“Andromache. We should go.” Hector shifted his feet, looking troubled.   
“You hear that? They are getting closer. We should not do anything to impede the chase.” 

His frown deepened when Andromache merely carded Patroclus’ fingers through hers. She examined the mark of the Collar around his neck and shook her head regretfully. 

“Take him,” Achilles suddenly said, straightening. He was staring at Andromache. 

“You can take him somewhere safe, can’t you?” 

“We can’t -” 

“I wasn’t asking you,” Achilles cut in, scowling at Hector. “I don’t trust you in the slightest. But I -” he hung his head. 

“I can’t carry him anymore.”

Patroclus clawed at Achilles’ collar, finding the skin of his chest and pressing his fingers against it. 

_No_ , he pleaded. _The two of us together. Always_. 

“I know,” Achilles replied.   
“But don’t you see? I need you to live. You made a promise, remember?” 

Of course he remembered. But he couldn’t -

Achilles shook his head, nodded at Andromache, and they both lifted him up. 

“Oh for mercy’s sake,” Hector exhaled, watching them struggle. He bundled Patroclus in his arms with one sweep of movement, and carefully placed him in the carriage. 

Achilles was standing proud, shoulders back and head held high. He studied Hector with a careful gleam.   
“If anything happens to him,” he warned.   
“Nothing will stop me from finding you.” 

Hector merely nodded, lifting himself up into the driver’s seat. 

_No_ , Patroclus could only mouth, silent, always silent. 

He met Achilles’ eyes. 

Last moments, and he could not stop pleading for it not to be true. 

Achilles tried for a smile but could not quite manage it. He stroked the side of Patroclus’ face instead, hand lingering for a moment before he had to let go. 

“There,” he said. 

_No_. 

“It’s time for us to say goodbye, isn’t it?” 

_Not goodbye. Never goodbye_. 

Achilles leaned down and kissed him, soft against the lips. 

“I’ll never forget you, my Patroclus.” 

He didn’t know where the tears had come from, if they were his or Achilles’. But the warmth of them seemed to stir something in him, made him straighten a little, so he could lift his head and stare out the window as Andromache climbed in beside him. 

She never stopped holding his hand, even when the carriage moved further down the street, and Achilles’ retreating figure was out of sight. 

He thought he could still see him running, if he looked hard enough. 

Fire, enduring through the rain.


	20. Epilogue

Saltwater, the taste of it on his tongue. The crevices between his toes and the grains of sand against them. 

When he wiggled his feet he could feel the rough edges, spilling onto the stone floor. 

He missed the smells of the garden, bright and blooming in cool night air. But out here, the open space, the vastness of the sky all around him. And the ocean. 

A day at the ocean, he smiled. Just the two of them. 

There were no trains, or towns. He supposed it was only fate, leading him to spend his days in the quietness of the stone monastery, its massive walls all around him. 

He had never imagined that he could know of the world beyond. He had never imagined that the roar of the waves would become his lullaby, leading him into the arms of sleep every night. 

He never tried to speak to them. There were days, when he thought he could. There were days, when he looked at the water in his bathing pool, in his drinking glass - and wondered if he could, again. 

The healing had been slow. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. And crawling days, before his limbs had awakened. His mind - he didn’t know what damage it had suffered. Except that distant day when the lodge had fallen, it had marked the last time the water ever answered him. 

Xanthus and Balios. 

How far they could roam, into the depths of the ocean. In his daydreams he imagined it so, that they had never been trapped in the throes of the arena. Somehow, somewhere, they had broken out of their watery stables, and were released to the wild. 

Who said the things that were real could only be ones that were touched?  
\---

At the top of the monastery’s tower, he had an eye out over the lay of the land. 

Not just the shore, and the white froth of the current. 

He could see out into the lands that the lord and lady owned. And sometimes, if he looked hard enough, he could make out the smoke from the nearest city. 

He had grown strong enough to climb. He moved slowly, and it took the span of a day to walk the beach and return to the stone walls he now called home. At the rocky outcrop were sprigs of grass, new life. He had healed there, passing the hours watching the ships roll by. 

Sometimes he wondered if it had all been a terrible nightmare. He wondered if the dreams that woke him up in the middle of the night - the tolling of the bells and the wail of the sirens - had been part of another life. Far away, the stuff of child’s dreams. 

But he could still feel the mark of the Collar where it had contained him. And when the rain arrived, he could hear distant laughter. What kind of life would it have been, he questioned, without having known all of that?   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes he wished he were anywhere but here. Other times - the mundane tasks of everyday distracted him, and he found there were few places as familiar as this. 

He helped the monks with their chores - gathering food, making repairs. He had almost laughed when he saw the textiles ready to be dyed. It seemed there was no escaping some parts of his life.

There was one place he would not venture in the monastery. And that was the old belltower, which the monks used to signal prayer times throughout the day. 

It reminded him too much of that day. When he thought about the lives that had been lost, all gambled on a single chance - it was too much. It was a chance that had nearly been lost. 

And sometimes, he thought it had been.   
\---

He walked so slowly now. His legs had never quite regained their full strength. On his way up the stairs, he would oftentimes observe his own shadow. 

It made him smile, imagining how it could change shape, how a simple flare of light across the water could transform it completely. He walked up the steps one by one, and his shadow never ceased to follow him. It kept him company in the darkest hours. Just him, and the remnant of an art that had once been so much more. 

His room was a small one, bare necessities. He liked the open window, large enough that he could lean out of it. When he got back in he would light the lamp, and watch the flame in it flicker until -

He paused on the steps. 

His window looked back at him, the lamp lighted in the open space, its single candle seeming to wave at him from afar. 

He dropped everything he was carrying, abandoned his shadow. 

And raced towards the bare room, flung open the door.

His heart sank. It was just the lamp. He must have left it on the night before. 

He sighed, walking over to his bed and staring out at the view. So much beauty. And just the echo of his fragile heart, unable to muster the will to take it all in. 

“I wonder how many constellations you’ve memorized by now. Who knew there were so many?” 

He whirled around, letting out a yelp. 

The sound of laughter, low in his ear. And two arms, sweeping him up, bringing him close against that broad chest where the fire lived. 

“Told you I’d keep the light on for you,” came the whisper. And Achilles laughed again, and kissed him, and ran a hand through his hair. 

He stared so hard his vision started to blur. He reached out, and placed his fingers over the raised ridge of scarred skin. 

It made him smile, feeling it. It made him weep. 

“Look at that,” Achilles said, catching a tear on his thumb. 

“But I’m not afraid of the water, you see.” 

And they were together again. Skin against skin, chest to chest, belly to belly. He could have told him anything. But just like many times before, the words left him.   
\---

His Achilles, he thought. Brave, powerful, untamed. All the years that flew by on birds’ wings, and he never stopped waiting. 

They had dreamed together, of the day when they would step off the cliff and find a bridge to the world beyond. But now there was a different one, because the thing about dreams - they grew and changed as swiftly as the tide. 

He drew circles on the other man’s skin, and watched the gold reflecting off the strands of his hair. He would not fall asleep. He would not.   
\---

_Not goodbye. Never goodbye_. 

In the small hours, when the natural world met the forces of the supernatural - those words did not exist. 

The cities outside, the towns and villages where Achilles spent his life running - they would only enter the mind when dawn arrived. 

“You’ll know how to find me,” Achilles whispered, and it was the last thing he heard. 

He tried his hardest to stay awake, but that was the nature of what Achilles was. 

Blink, and he was gone.   
\---

He awoke with the sea breeze against his face, the call of the gulls flying over water. He glanced outside the window, dreary-eyed, and felt that hollowness again. 

Mountains and sky. 

Wings, beating against the wind. There were some things lost that could never be brought back again. But he remembered Achilles’ parting words, and he waited. 

There was an old fear that he would not be able to find the other in the darkness. But now it was distant as his childhood days - for when he looked long enough out the window, he saw the first light arise. 

Burning paper, crumpling at the edges. The lantern eaten away, until all that was left was an orb, flaming into the blackness like a firefly in summer. 

It calmed his soul, seeing it rise from the mountaintop, its glow touching the clouds and coloring the heavens. 

But it did not stop there. 

One by one, the lights rose, from cities and towns far away. They drifted upwards, alone at first. 

And they met in the sky, so numerous that the day seemed to transform into evening, red and orange and gold. 

Even when the last of them floated out of sight, more arrived. 

Messages, released into the wind. Messages, from every soul that had found its courage, all from a day when everything had changed. 

He thought of servants and performers. He thought of names, just like his, a pact made long ago. And he thought of how they knew to find each other, to give the surest sign that they endured no matter what the city had taken from them. 

They lit their lanterns as a mark of hope, the only thing they could live on in the dark hours. 

They were burning the sky, for it was not made of glass, and the day would come when it was theirs to claim. 

And most of all, he searched for the very first one that had guided the others, rising, rising above the clouds and to the space beyond. And he knew that it burned only for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write. Thank you for joining in! It was originally going to be a much shorter story, but things got out of hand (heheh).


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